Fate of the Crusader
by imenyaciandar
Summary: The events here related continue the story of the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep, following her assault on the City of Judgment and defeat of the Betrayer's Curse. In dark times, hope may be found in unexpected places.
1. Awakening

I woke drenched in sweat, my cold fingers clawing at the bedsheets. The scream died upon my lips. My eyes flared open and searched frantically around the darkened room, but I was quite alone - just as before.

Again, the nightmare had come. Almost every night since my return to Crossroad Keep, I had been wrenched awake by the same terror.

I sat up, drawing my knees to my chest, and tried to focus on the memory of the dream. And yet again, the fleeting images eluded me, swirling like wisps of smoke. Frustrated, I raked my fingers through my damp, tangled hair. The dry gasping of my breath slowed, the wild pounding in my chest relented, and the panic gradually released its grip on me - giving way to anger.

_How_ was this possible?

I had faced formidable enemies before, but this... this was alien to me. Nothing had been the same since the Wall.

My Crusade against the Wall of the Faithless. The heroic, doomed assault.

It had turned the eyes of the very _gods_ themselves upon me - and now I sensed their wrath... seething, palpable.

Still, I reasoned it to be unlikely - for now, at least - that I would be attacked openly; no deity would risk the potential consequences. The balance of power among the gods was a delicate one, and none wished to expose themselves, or their followers, to retribution by acting out of turn.

Of course, there were more subtle means of harming me, of manipulating me, of hurting those under my protection. In anticipation, I had employed the most intricate arcane devices, harnessing the greatest reserves of my power in shielding my thoughts, protecting me from malevolent interference whilst I remained at the Keep. The barriers around my mind - the seat of my power, and the very core of my being - had been fashioned by the finest practice of my art.

Truly, my prison was a thing of wonder.

The Knight Captain had returned, only to become jailed in a cage of her own making. In seeking to protect myself, I had also cut myself off. I was limited in my movements by the range of my defenses. I could not portal, I could not scry, I could not mind-link. In addition, the immense drain of power required by my shields meant that I could hardly use any of my other abilities. I was weak, isolated and blind.

Trapped. The thought filled me with helpless rage. How could I confront an unknown enemy? How could I _act_, when I could not _see_? When the future was as nebulous as the visions that haunted my dreams?

And now it appeared that my defenses were being breached. A cold seed of fear had begun to grow in my heart - feeding on the aching, empty loss that I carried within.

I heard quiet footsteps approach, and saw a faint glow spread across the floor as the heavy door swung slowly inwards.

He had given me a moment to compose myself. The candle light played over Gannayev's pale, drawn face. Confirming my suspicions, it was clear that he had not slept - and this was not the first night. I knew he had been outside my chamber for some time. Wordlessly, he sank down at the foot of my bed, and regarded me intently.

"You look tired," I observed, feebly.

"You, on the other hand, are as radiant as ever, my lady." He bit back sarcastically, yet his tone did not carry its usual flippancy.

"This is madness, you must let me do something." I looked silently back at the face I had come to know so well. His eyes... they looked older now. At length, I replied:

"I do not know what lies within, what is causing these dreams. I need not remind you that the last time you entered my mind, we both came within inches of being destroyed. I cannot allow you to risk yourself again, without knowing more."

At my words, anger sparked in Gann's eyes, and he retorted sharply:

"You are still under the deluded impression that you can protect me. My life was forfeit the moment I cast my lot in with yours; I know that, and so do you. And that was _my_ choice to make, not yours." He stared at me a moment, lending emphasis to his words, then went on:

"Your screams cut through my dreams; the others may not hear them, but I do. I would hear them even if I were back in Rashemen." His voice faltered slightly, but he quickly regained control. He smiled thinly at me, before saying:

"Please. Allow me to help you... and let a tired hagspawn get some sleep."

I could not deny the truth in his words, though it pained me to hear them. Gann was a walker of dreams; a tamer and master of the sleeping world.

There were a handful of people whom I trusted with my life. Besides Gann, there was no-one else alive I would trust with my mind. He had earned that trust a hundred times over. Besides, knowing him as well as I did, he would find a way to wear down my efforts to resist his help, eventually.

"Do you have any theories regarding the origin of these dreams?" I asked.

"Several," he replied "but I cannot be certain until I have investigated more closely. You still remember nothing?" I shook my head, and he continued:

"I have not been able to detect any outside influences, but forces I have not yet considered, may be at work." He paused, then added pensively:

"I find it surprising that there is no detectable malevolent undercurrent whilst you sleep; in fact, you seem almost peaceful, until you are startled awake."

I flushed. This knowledge implied that he must have spent hours watching me sleep. If he noticed, he gave no sign. He drew an amulet from beneath his shirt. It was plain-looking, like a child's plaything. He handed it to me, and I placed it around my neck. It had no discernible effect.

"This will open your dreams to me, allowing me to follow you more easily. It should overcome any resistance to my presence." He inhaled deeply, as though bracing himself, before he spoke again:

"I will need to touch you for it to work, however." He moved closer to me, awkwardly, and laid his warm palm upon my forehead.

It seemed a long time ago... he had been gracious in accepting that I could not love him - not with a heart already claimed by another; he had never spoken of it again. Yet it was plain in his eyes, whenever I allowed myself to look. He would never impose his feelings upon anyone, but he did not attempt to make a secret of them, either.

A pleasant calm slid over my mind, the fear forgotten...

...and I was standing in a small clearing, the sun casting gentle shafts of light between the bows of towering trees. Autumn-coloured leaves descended lazily to the ground in a slow, swirling dance. The glistening grass was soft beneath my feet, and the air was sweet and clean. This was a place of quiet joy, of lasting peace.

I could not see Gann, but somehow I sensed that he was near. I heard someone approach through the trees and turned, expecting to see the dream walker.

Instead, I saw the cloaked figure of a woman. She was tall, and her stride was quick and sure. She beckoned; I hesitated. She drew back the hood of her cloak and her long, auburn hair spilled around her shoulders. I did not recognise her, but I was struck by her beauty, and felt suddenly small and plain beside her.

"Come." she said, the urgency plain in her musical voice, "We have little time." She turned and disappeared into the trees once more, not looking back to see whether I followed. I hurried after her.

The trees grew densely here, the ground became rocky, and I sensed that we were climbing steadily upwards. My unnamed companion had drawn her hood over her face once more, and I became aware that the air had grown cold and misty. My steps became uncertain, as though some hidden recess of my mind knew what was to follow, and recoiled from it.

Abruptly, the trees parted and we were standing on a stony outcrop, the ground falling away in a sheer cliff face. I could not see through the dense mist what lay beyond, but a distant rumbling echo sounded as though it rose from a great chasm. A profound sense of loss and desolation pressed down unbearably on this place, and I felt tears brimming in my eyes.

I took another step forward, and another figure took shape in the fog, near the edge of the drop. I looked questioningly for the cloaked woman, but she had gone.

Almost overwhelmed by fear and sadness, I was yet unable to resist walking closer. The figure came into full view. And my heart leapt.

It was Casavir. The one I loved, even when death had parted us. He faced the vast emptiness ahead, his hair dampened by the chill mist. His face was unmistakable, but he was changed, somehow. His eyes stared vacantly, his shoulders slumped.

He stepped towards the precipice. With terrifying clarity, I knew what would happen next. He would cast himself into the yawning space.

And I would wake once again, with screams that had no sound, alone in the bed we had once shared.

"No!" my desperate cry was a piercing echo in my head. This time, he did not jump. He sank to his knees. His face was wet with tears, but he made no sound. I wanted to reach out to him, but found that I could not move.

"He cannot hear you." Gann's voice behind me was dull, unreadable. "This is not your dream at all. You have been drawn into another's nightmare, crossing the boundaries of the planes that separate you. You are in no danger, and the fear you felt was never for yourself. I should not be here." He dissolved into the mist. I remained rooted on the spot.

"Casavir." A rich, warm voice drove some of the chill from the air.

A man had appeared beside Casavir's kneeling figure, his ageless face turned down to him. He placed a ruined hand upon Casavir's shoulder. Tyr, the maimed god.

Then Casavir spoke, his voice broken, defeated:

"I have failed, my lord. This punishment is fitting, but it is more than I can bear."

"You have not failed _me_, Casavir, even when you believed you had. You defended the weak, and sought justice for those who were denied it. I require justice and honour, not perfection." Tyr stopped speaking for a moment, his blind eyes lifted to the swirling sky above. Looking deeper than eyes alone would have allowed. Then he said:

"But you have the heart of a man. It is someone else whom you feel you have failed. This suffering is of your own making, and even in my realm I cannot take it from you. _You_ must grant yourself peace."

"How can I have peace when her fate is hidden from me?" Casavir cried out, agonised. His voice carried with a booming, surreal echo:

"I would have died a thousand times for her, but my death could not save her. She was taken, and now the gods rage for her blood; all who have passed through the City of Judgement sense it."

Tyr's soothing voice interjected:

"You have passed on from the realm of the living, Casavir. You can no longer influence it. Knowing her fate will be of no use to you, and I cannot aid you in this. Even the gods must abide by rules." Casavir did not seem to hear.

"I have sworn an oath to her - not only in words, but in deeds - and I am bound to her. Whatever she has done, it matters not - I love her still. Powerless and futile as that may be." His voice softened. He swayed and slumped to the ground.

"Sleep, my son. I can grant you this small reprieve from your torment." Tyr turned his unseeing eyes towards me, still mute and paralysed where I stood. The mist swirled around me and I felt myself start to drift from the dream. I waited for the waking world to crowd into my consciousness.

But the mist remained.

I floated between wake and sleep. A familiar voice rang in my head, and I knew that Tyr's presence was all around.

"You have risked much by coming here, mortal - though I am aware, it was not your doing alone." _The cloaked woman..._

"Casavir's love for you has created a bridge between the living and the dead. His suffering has cast a pall upon my realm, but he is not the first of my followers to have known sorrow and loss. There is one such who could not bear to see it in another. It was _she_ who sought to bring you here. It was not my will, but I have allowed it, because a greater purpose may be served by it. " I could not respond, I could only listen as I drifted helplessly in this strange nowhere.

"I may speak plainly here, for this place was created by _your_ mind, and none can venture here if not allowed by you." This implied that, even in his own realm, Tyr had reason to believe that his actions were being watched.

"You have unleashed a war, Crusader. Many of the gods fear you, and plot your destruction. Yet there are also those who support your actions. This has created a rift in the planes; this threatens us all. Many gods and countless mortals will surely die. But the Wall is an ancient injustice, erected by an evil, arrogant god - it must not be allowed to stand, even as his bones turn to dust." It was quiet for a moment, as though the God of Justice were weighing his words.

"You will understand that I cannot intervene alone; nor can any other god. No war is won by a single man, nor by a single god. But you, Shard Bearer, Spirit Eater, have been marked by destiny many times over. If there is a way to unite the gods, I believe you are the key."

The mist thinned, and I was falling, falling. Tyr's voice sounded in a final echo:

_"There are those in my realm who would aid you. When the time comes, they will be drawn to your banner."_

The light was blinding as I plunged into the waking world, gasping like one almost drowned. The dream flooded my mind in a moment of crystal clarity. I remembered.

A ghost of fear remained, but I felt stronger. My heart ached, but it was also filled with hope. I sat up, and saw that my pillow was soaked with tears.

I looked around for Gann. I was not surprised when I did not see him, but the sadness I felt was unexpected.

I rose from the bed, and walked noiselessly across the stone floor. I splashed water on my face from the basin perched in its wooden frame. The cold water stung my skin and trickled down my neck, onto my shift. It felt good, invigourating. In the half-light, I faced the looking glass and my pale reflection. My eyes were darkly circled, but they shone with new resolve.

The time for hiding was over.

The door behind me swung open, unannounced, startling me.

"I thought you had gone." I addressed Gann's reflection stiffly, without turning to face him.

"You were wrong." he countered. "I am often underestimated - even by gods, it would seem." I could hear the smirk in his voice, and a smile tugged at my lips. How typical.

"You remained in the dream?" I asked, wondering why I had not sensed him.

"I returned when I could not wake you. It was easy enough to find you." He stared pointedly at the amulet, still around my neck, before he turned to leave.

In the doorway, he paused. His blonde hair hid his face when he said:

"You are not rid of me yet, my lady; if pleasing you means I must drag your lover back from the dead, then I shall do it."


	2. Cabin Fever

It was almost midday when I woke. Following an eventful night, I had finally slipped into a dreamless sleep, sprawled obliquely across my bed. My neck ached and I rubbed the knotted muscles thoughtfully. I considered the details of what I had seen the night before – somehow, it no longer seemed accurate to think of it as a "dream". I was, however, careful to avoid lingering thoughts of Casavir.

We had been lovers, it was true, but I had not truly known him. I had been drawn almost immediately to his strong, reassuring presence. He had been unerringly loyal to me from the moment he joined my cause and had aided me in finding my own strength. Yet the time we had spent together had been brief and his composed, reserved demeanour had rarely allowed insight into mind of the stoic paladin. We had, finally, confessed our mutual affections, but soon thereafter the world had been drowned in battle and Casavir had fallen. It had been weeks later that I learned of his fate, and even then I could mourn for him in silence only, as I battled yet another threatening cataclysm. Now I felt equal measures of horror at witnessing the torment of his grief and joy that I had been able to reach him. The deluge of conflicting emotions tore at my heart, but I could not afford to have my judgement clouded. I forced these thoughts to the furthest corner of my mind and locked them away.

The Keep was usually a hive of activity before noon, but on that morning the corridor between my chamber and the library was deserted. I was grateful for the solitude; I was not yet sure what I would say to my companions. I wanted more clarity before discussing my plans with them. I chose the library as a haven to gather my thoughts and do some preliminary research. I stood in a small enclave, the polished wooden bookshelves towering above my diminutive elven frame. It seemed to me that Tyr wished me to seek allies among the gods, to garner support for a coming war – a war that would transcend the boundaries of reality as my mortal mind understood it. A mirthless laugh escaped me; in the light of day, it all seemed more than a little absurd. I was no cleric; my strength lay in my mind, not in my faith. I had learned what I knew from books and experience - I felt ill at ease venturing into the territory of the divine. Nonetheless, I had never failed to gain something from the study of my beloved tomes – be it knowledge, power or simply distraction. Seeking a deeper understanding of the more influential deities, I planned to begin with gods traditionally aligned with Tyr: Torm and Ilmater.

A faint rustling sounded from behind me, startling me as I pulled a volume off the shelf above my head. The book slid from my hands and struck a glancing blow to my forehead, before tumbling to the floor, disgorging its pages. I exclaimed in shock and pain and whirled around. Sand and Safiya stared at me in stunned disbelief. I raised a hand to my head and my fingers became warm and sticky with blood.

"You're hurt!" Safiya exclaimed and stepped forward to examine my head.

"It's nothing" I snapped, irritably. "I didn't hear you come in."

"We didn't want to disturb you, my dear." Sand replied smoothly "Was someone else here with you? We thought we... err, heard voices. Did you laugh at something?" I realised that I may have been thinking out loud – a habit I had retained from my childhood. I flushed, embarrassed.

"No, there's no-one here." I replied curtly.

"Have you been awake long?" Safiya asked, cautiously. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was still clad only in the shift I had slept in and my hair was still a tangled mess following my restless night.

"Not long" I muttered "I was just looking for something" I started gathering the fallen pages distractedly, smudging them with my blood.

"Never mind that." Safiya took my arm gently "It will be taken care of. The servants have drawn you a bath, and I'll send a healer to attend to your wound"

I felt like shouting that I didn't need a healer, that I'd fought countless monsters and survived terrible injuries... but I already felt foolish enough. I brushed past them as I fled from the room.

--

The afternoon sun was warm on my damp hair. I sat alone on a low bench outside the southern wall of the kitchens; this small courtyard was rarely frequented, save by stray cats begging for scraps. I unrolled a sheet of parchment on my knees. It had been a gift from Kaelyn, a half-celestial cleric and former ally. She had also been a wise and valued friend. Since none of my remaining associates was a servant of the gods, second-hand knowledge was the best I had. I was about to immerse myself in the teachings of Ilmater, when the voices of the kitchen maids, chattering as they worked, floated down to me through the open window:

"...hasn't slept a wink in days, then this mornin' – there she was, stumblin' about half-naked in the lib'ry, tossin' books in the air..."

"Lina, don't say such things of the lady Knight-Captain!"

"It's true as the gods, I tell ye! Anna had ta clean up the mess – said there was blood everywhere!"

"How awful!"

"No great wonder, is it? All that meddlin' with magic; it ain't natural. Add ta that, all those people who died, weighin' on her conscience... soon, her mind'll be gone fer good."

I froze. Amidst my shock and anger at being the subject of their gossip, I considered how I must have appeared to those around me during the past few days. I had been preoccupied, it was true, but had I really given them reason to doubt my sanity? Most horrifying of all: could they be right?

My cheeks burned and my eyes swam with tears. Blindly, I stumbled away from the sound of their voices. Was I really going to tell my allies that the gods spoke to me in my dreams? That I would be pivotal in a Plane-shattering war, that I would restore the dead back to life? With crushing certainty, I knew they would not believe me. I was no longer sure I believed it myself. And where in the _hells _was Gann? Did he believe me, or was he simply humouring the fancies of my unhinged mind?

I sat down heavily on the grass. As the sobs shook my body, I thought for a moment how much easier it would have been if I had never been pulled from beneath that pile of rocks...

My skin prickled. I was being watched. Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I glanced around. A fluffy black cat held me in his sceptical yellow gaze. Seeing that he had been noticed, he looked away, feigning boredom. My eyes remained, however, on the rather odd scene before me. The cat was precariously perched on the rather bony knees of a Kobold. Lying flat on his back, his arms spread out to the sides, the creature I knew as Deekin was sunning himself on this – until recently – quiet patch of grass. A wide-brimmed straw hat covered most of his face; only his small reptilian snout protruded. I sniffed loudly. Deekin stirred and his hat slipped down on one side, exposing one of his black, marble-like eyes. He blinked at me.

"Does the lady have a cold? Deekin has herbs for good tea."

I shook my head, not sure what to tell the small, lizard-like man.

"Perhaps she would like a handkerchief?" Disapprovingly, he added: "Sniffing not very refined."

Smiling in spite of myself, I took the dubious-looking napkin offered by the Kobold.

"Thank you, Deekin." I stared miserably down at my hands. I was fond of Crossroad Keep's bard-turned-merchant; he had a knack for obtaining unusual items and was surprisingly knowledgeable about a wide range of esoteric topics. At this moment, however, I really wished to be alone.

"Deekin thinks maybe the lady Captain is having a bad week?" he probed.

"I suppose that would be one way of looking at it." I replied drily.

Deekin propped himself into a more upright position and rummaged in the small leather pouch he wore around his waist. He carefully withdrew a small square of parchment. It looked worn, as though it had been folded and unfolded many times. He handed it to me solemnly; it was obviously of great value to him.

I looked down at an ink portrait of a woman. She had a regal countenance, almost haughty. She was lovely, yet even in this artist's impression her gaze seemed calculated, challenging.

"Beautiful half-elven lady." Deekin whispered reverently "Deekin wrote many songs for her." I had heard the rumours of Deekin's former glory days; it was said he had once travelled the length of the Sword Coast and beyond with a great champion of Neverwinter. Thousands had fallen at her hand, until she vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. If Deekin knew what had become of her, I was certain he would take the secret to his grave.

"She also powerful mage, like lady Captain." He looked at me reproachfully, "She never be having her own little castle with plenty servants, but she always got job done. She never one for self-pity." Another meaningful stare. Rather than being offended by his candour, I found it refreshing. I had become heartily sick of people tip-toeing around me. He was right – at that moment, I seemed more like a weepy, pathetic child than a conquering hero.

His honesty prompted me to voice my puzzlement:

"Deekin, you understand twelve languages. You have travelled to many lands, studied so much. Yet when you speak..."

"Deekin is a Kobold – good Kobold, but never forget his roots" he replied sagely.

"Deekin's eyes open for many summers," he continued "little people always tell stories about big people – some stories kind, others unkind; some true, others only parts of truth, or none at all. Deekin thinks if the Captain is not liking stories she hears, maybe she tries stuffing parchment in her pretty pointy ears. Or maybe set storytellers' petticoats on fire" he added, glancing at me slyly. I laughed loudly.

"Trouble will come again, bigger than before." He was suddenly serious. "Maybe, march to fight; maybe stand ground, maybe run – Deekin wonders what the Captain will do."

--

The autumn night sky was clear, bathing the battlements in starlight, but angry purple clouds had started to gather on the horizon. I drew my travelling cloak close against the deepening chill. As I crossed the main courtyard, I heard music and voices from the open door of the tavern. Rising above the general din of the revellers, I recognised a loud oath from Kelghar, and Neeshka's tinkling laughter in response. I smiled. I would miss them.

I headed towards the main gate. Before I turned my back on Crossroad Keep, I had one last errand.


	3. The Knight's Burden

Keeping to the shadows, I made my way along the dusty wagon trail that meandered between the cornfields. The days were becoming shorter – soon the farmlands would be alive with the bustle of harvest time. With the threat of the Shadow King lifted, the land had flourished; all around the Keep, the crops held the promise of a generous yield.

I arrived at a modestly constructed log cabin at the edge of the fields. With the moon hidden behind a mass of gathering cloud, the faint starlight revealed little of its exterior features. From the shutterless window, light from within spilled onto the ground, illuminating the path leading to the front door. My knock was not loud, but insistent. The sound of a chair drawn across the wooden floor, and the crescendo of footsteps approaching the door... I was not going to enjoy this meeting.

Framed in the doorway stood Nevalle's tall, solid figure. He was simply clad, wearing a plain shirt and workman's trousers, with well-worn leather boots laced up to his knees. I was unused to seeing him out of his official garb as a knight of Neverwinter, and he seemed out of place in these spartan surroundings. He had arrived here shortly before the last war, and after my disappearance he had stayed on, assisting Kana with the running of Crossroad Keep. It was a temporary arrangement, though two years had passed since then.

My absence during the aftermath of the war had been a trying time for those who remained. Nevalle had personally lead the delegation from Neverwinter, tasked to search the ruins that had been the scene of our last stand. It had been a monumental undertaking, but no stone had been left unturned. The bodies of the fallen had been recovered: Grobnar, Qara, Bishop, Casavir. Apart from Neeshka, Sand and Khelgar, who had escaped the collapse of the stone fortress, the remainder of our party was never accounted for.

I read a quizzical expression in his brown eyes as they met my grey, but his mouth set in a hard line as he took in my travelling clothes and the bags holding my possessions. He stood aside and I walked past him into the small, sparsely furnished dwelling.

A fire blazed cheerily in the hearth, in defiance of the chill between us. I stood quite still, with my eyes fixed on the leaping flames. Neither of us wished to speak first, but Nevalle did not have my elven patience.

"Take it, then, if that's why you are here."

I stepped forward and took the silver blade from its mounting on the wall. Despite its size, it felt remarkably light. When I had first taken up this weapon, I knew nothing of swordsmanship; I favoured wielding lightning and fire over cold steel. Yet when my fingers curled around the hilt, it became an extension of my will, a focus of my power. Oh, I had needed countless hours of training – Nevalle had been one of my teachers – but the blade had become deadly in my hand.

Since my return from Rashemen, the Sword of Gith had been kept under veil of secrecy in this remote cabin. I had trusted Nevalle as its custodian and had personally placed wards to shield it from the eyes of others. My appearance that night could only mean that I had come for the sword - and that I would be leaving.

I turned at last to face his accusing stare.

"I do not know when I'll be able to return. Kana is more than able to manage the affairs of the Keep. When you return to Neverwinter, I'm certain Lord Nasher will send another representative in your stead – though if you wish to stay, I'm sure Kana will be glad for the support."

"Kana _will _be glad for the support, since she will once again be left floundering without her rightful Captain!" His voice was tightly controlled, but his eyes burned with disappointment and anger. It seemed to him that I was fleeing, shifting my responsibilities onto others.

"What of the people of the Keep? Are you abandoning your duty to them? Those who came here, heeding your call; does their fate mean nothing to you?"

I understood his resentment, but nothing I could say would have made any difference. I could not explain to him that my duty was no longer limited to Crossroad Keep, or Neverwinter. If he had lost all respect for me, so be it.

"I am not here to argue with you, Sir Nevalle, nor to justify myself to you. My reasons are my own. I thank you for your loyal service to the Keep. I trust you will convey my apologies to Kana for not informing her personally of my departure." I turned towards the door.

"Perhaps the two of you were better suited than I had thought."

I halted in my tracks; the reference had momentarily caught me off-guard. He was trying to goad me. He continued, a raw edge beneath the iciness of his voice:

"We had been friends, you know."

Of course. He had never spoken of it before, but it stood to reason. Considering his station and service to Neverwinter, Nevalle must have known Casavir well.

"He was everything I aspired to be. His valour, his devotion to his church and his city; he was a shining example to us all. I would gladly have given my life serving with him. I would almost certainly have fallen in battle at Redfallow's Watch, had he not been fighting at my side." He paused, then continued, almost to himself.

"He threw it all away. He fled like a coward in the night, without a word." Distaste was evident in his voice and the scowl on his face: "His sudden absence sparked the most... _ridiculous_ rumours; affairs with unsuitable women, dealings with illegal traders, even murders were linked to his name. No proof was ever offered, but his actions alone were enough to cost him his title and his position. I had to stand by as my friend, my _brother_, was slandered by his former peers."

I did not turn around, fighting to control the anger that boiled inside me. My fingertips were glowing with pent-up power, burning the palms of my hands as I clenched my fists. Nevalle was not finished:

"He sought to redeem himself by fighting at your side. I was told he wished the Ruins of Ahrvan to be his final resting place. I buried him there with my own hands – in honour of the man he used to be."

I would not allow him to see that his words had affected me. Summoning all my resolve, I faced him one last time and replied with steely calm:

"Speaking of the dead is of no use to the living, Sir Nevalle. No purpose is served by dredging up the past. Farewell."


	4. An Ill Wind

The village of Harvest Moon lay blanketed in the first heavy snowfall. The small settlement was nestled in the hills a few miles north-east of Highcliff, along a seldom-travelled and notoriously dangerous road. In the early evening shade, with the frigid wind picking up, soft light glowed invitingly from snow-powdered windows.

My hurried departure from the Keep had admittedly been ill-considered, but my need to escape its claustrophobic confines had outweighed my reasoning. This was unprecedented behaviour; I was not in the habit of acting without a plan. After setting out decisively on my own, I had to acknowledge the fact that I had no idea where I was going. I had covered little ground at first, stopping for days at a time, gradually edging nearer to the coast. My dreams were once again simply dreams, nothing more.

I worshipped no god. I said no prayers. I needed guidance, but did not know how to ask for it. Eventually, the realisation came that my meandering path was leading back to Neverwinter. I felt compelled to return there. Perhaps in doing so, I would find answers – or start asking the right questions.

During my weeks of travel, I had avoided busy roads and heavily populated areas, wishing to escape unwanted attention – a difficult prospect, since I had regrettably become widely recognised. The bands of criminals that frequented the byways of the realm – for reasons similar to my own – posed no danger to me. I avoided confrontation whenever I could; when this was not possible, I disposed of the unfortunate aggressors without effort. I took no pleasure in destroying life – any life – but in my present disposition, I was not inclined to reason with the thugs, either.

I was cold, tired and hungry as I trudged through the snow, thick upon Harvest Moon's only street. In the centre of the village stood an ornately carved stone font. A figure of Chauntea, the Grain Goddess, stood in the basin of the font. Her feet were concealed by the frozen water and an icicle had formed at the tip of her scythe. The local inhabitants made their living coaxing seeds into life on the slopes of the grassy hills, and had honoured their patron deity with the rather uncomfortable-looking statue. The craftsmanship was good, but somehow it seemed pretentious in these rural surrounds, and incongruous with the nature of the goddess it depicted.

A sturdy-looking stone building lay off the path to my right. Smoke trailed from the chimney and the large windows allowed a view of stout wooden furniture and a large fireplace within. A glance at the weather-worn sign above the door confirmed that I had reached "The Moonshine Inn". I smiled wryly.

The warmth of the fire and savoury aromas of food greeted me at the door. A young woman, clad in a dark green robe, sat on a stool in one corner of the room. She sang a familiar song, her lilting, pleasant voice needing no accompaniment. At her feet, a small child slept on a thick woollen fleece. The girl's wispy hair was the same corn-golden colour as the woman's. The life of a travelling bard could not be easy for the mother and daughter. I dropped a coin in the bowl before her. The singer did not react; her eyes seemed to see far into the distance

A group of farmers sat at one of the tables, ale in hand, and regarded me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. I ignored their whispering. A man with a proprietary smile stood behind the bar, and a girl wearing an apron lounged sullenly in the doorway to the kitchen.

I turned my attention to the opposite corner of the crowded room. A woman, seated alone at one of the smaller tables, was watching me closely. She smiled warmly as I met her gaze. Her skin was polished ebony, contrasting with the pale golden hair framing her face. A drow.

She wore a deep red cloak of the finest weave, with a high, fur-lined collar. A delicate golden clasp fastened the garment beneath her chin. I chastised myself for the unease I felt upon noticing her. I had thought such pettiness beneath me. Perhaps one's entrenched prejudices are not so easily overcome, I mused; the drow were still widely mistrusted by the rest of elven society.

I walked over to her, hoping that my face had not betrayed my initial misgivings.  
"Nalissa greets you, stranger. It is good to see the eyes of the townsfolk drawn to another; I grow weary of their staring."  
She indicated the unoccupied seat opposite hers. I returned her greeting and sat down. She was well-spoken, but her accent revealed that she had travelled a lot further than I. Her appearance suggested wealth; a merchant, perhaps?  
"I collect what is common and dispense what is rare." she replied, "I have found it a profitable enterprise, as long as I do not remain in one place for long."

I found her company surprisingly enjoyable; her wit was sharp and her mind keen. Travelling without the banter of my associates had been a cheerless experience; my ears were starved for a friendly voice. Our conversation centred mainly around the far-flung locations where she had conducted her business - her dealings with the Arcane Brotherhood in Luskan, the vast city of Waterdeep, the wondrous inventions of Lantan. She was content to answer my many questions, but asked few of her own - fortunate, since I was not in a position to be so forthcoming. We talked over steaming bowls of fragrant stew and listened to the bard's wistful singing well into the night.

The the other patrons started to dwindle at around midnight; some retiring to rooms upstairs, others returning to homes in the town. The nightingale gathered her sleeping child in her arms and disappeared up the stairs. I paid the innkeeper generous coin for the last vacant room and bade Nalissa a good night. I agreed to meet her the following morning; I hoped to purchase some of her wares for the next part of my journey.

--

The acrid smell woke me. It was at once strange and familiar. My small room in the inn was illuminated only by ghostly moonlight through the single-paned window. The smell was faint, an almost chemical odour. It was reminiscent of failed potions, a blend of harsh soap and spoiled food and... something else.

Rising from my bed, my limbs felt heavy and my movements sluggish. I pulled on my cloak and opened the door. I felt my way along the wall of the unlit hallway, searching for the stairs leading to the tavern below. My mind remained stubbornly clouded with sleep; I shook my head impatiently. I made my way gingerly down the stairs, clutching the railing for support. Almost reflexively, I muttered the incantations - my shields sprang up obediently, but quivered with an ominous static buzz.

The tavern seemed much larger in the quiet, deserted gloom. The innkeeper lay sleeping at the bar. Movement at the far end of the room alerted me to another presence. Despite the darkness, I recognised the blonde bard as she searched among the empty chairs, whispering urgently. I tried to call out to her, but my voice was no more than a dry croak. If she knew I was there, she gave no indication; abandoning her search among the furniture, she hurried towards the door. My ears were ringing, but I caught the unmistakable sound of low, rhythmic humming as she pulled the heavy door wide and stepped out into the snow. I started to follow, but stumbled, steadying myself against the bar.

The innkeeper's body toppled to the floor, his lifeless eyes staring obscenely. In the doorway to the kitchen lay another body - the servant girl. An orb of light bloomed from my palm. I could see no blood or other sign of injury, but her skin had an ugly, jaundiced tinge. I brought my hand closer, examining her face.

A convulsive cough racked her body, misting the air with a spray of blood. Her eyes flew open in horror.  
"The witch" she rasped. Her breath came with a sickening rattle, and then ceased. The light in my hand flickered and faded out.

A gust of wind came through the open front door, dusting the floor with snow. It melted almost immediately. An eerie light illuminated the narrow view I had of the snow-shrouded street. It throbbed slowly, like an ailing heart. Painfully, I staggered out into the icy white.

The air burned my chest and stung my eyes. I was sweating despite the cold, and shaking uncontrollably. My thoughts became erratic; for all the vast power I had once wielded, I was too weak for a single cantrip. The statue of Chauntea lay shattered on the ground. A thick, yellow fog roiled in the ruined font. It spilled over the edge, dissolving into the air. A woman stood with her back to me, her arms held wide, exposing her unmistakable tattoos.

The priestess of Talona turned to me and smiled.

"Why?" I forced out the pitiful word; it was barely audible.  
Nalissa walked slowly towards me. My knees buckled. I braced myself in a crouch.  
"You are an intelligent woman. I trust you know the answer already."  
My joints seized. A dark haze drifted across my vision, threatening to blot out the world. Nalissa circled me like a predator; she was wary, even though I was already barely conscious.  
"The Mother demands only you; Chauntea's sheep are my offering." She sounded proud.  
She wasted no more words on me; her work was done. Standing very close, she held out her hand and splintered a vial of black liquid in her fist. The glass bit into her flesh, allowing her blood to mix with the foul infusion. It fell in globular, steaming drops in the snow before me. The fumes crushed the breath from my lungs.

The rhythmic humming. The voice. It seemed to come from inside my head, kindling the dying embers of my life. An aura of swirling colour floated in the periphery of my vision. Nalissa looked toward the source of the aura and flicked an irritated gesture. The soothing chant turned to screams of agony.

The distraction was enough. With my last strength, I lunged. The Sword of Gith slid easily between the drow's ribs, cleaving through her yielding body as I wrenched the blade downward. Her eyes widened with shock, and glazed over.

In a moment of raging clarity before the blackness took me, I saw the bard's silent body lying on the ground, contorted in spasm.

I saw a small blonde girl, with other-worldly eyes and a celestial glow, in the doorway of the inn.

I saw her face twist in fear and confusion.

"Mama?"

_"You fool! It was too soon." the old crone hissed.__  
A hollow laugh.__  
__"No, my dear, the timing was perfect."__  
"If the girl survives, there will be repercussions. Our failure will draw... attention."__  
"_Our_ failure? No, Talona. I believe the only hand to be seen in this fiasco, is yours." _


	5. Reason and Consequence

I was spinning with blinding, dizzyng speed. Light flashed behind my closed eyelids, and a deafening, droning buzz bored into my head. Faster and faster I spun, as I felt my mind unravel. I was losing myself.

A sudden stop - but not jarring, nor painful, as though I had simply floated away from the maddening centrifuge. My head cleared. I opened my eyes and as the world swam into focus, I tried to make sense of my surroundings.

I was sitting in a high-backed chair, facing an open window. Tiny silver-blue roses stood in the window-box, and cheerful yellow drapes adorned the frame. Two moons, one larger than the other, hung in the pale lilac sky, over vast fields of pearlescent wheat.

A small table stood at my elbow. A glass mug, containing a steaming amber liquid, filled the air with the scent of honey and orange blossoms. It mingled with the smell of roasted nuts and spices from slices of freshly baked bread. The spread was completed by a small wooden bowl of ruby-red cherries.

For the first time I noticed the woman sitting at the other side of the table. She leaned back in her chair and regarded me speculatively. She wore a flowing white robe and her silvery hair hung loosly about her shoulders. Her face had been lined by laughter and coloured by the sun, and she seemed to glow with vitality.

She spoke:  
"So this is what all the fuss is about."

I flexed my fingers experimentally and twisted in my chair. The world around me was solid enough, yet my limbs felt impossibly light. Finding my voice, I ventured:  
"I am here, yet... not here"  
The woman seemed pleased by my observation and nodded encouragingly. "You are Chauntea" My own words sounded odd to my ears.  
The woman inclined her head with a hint of a smile.  
She looked at the food "Eat. You're going to need your wits about you."

The meal was delicious, and I felt my strength returning with every mouthfull. When I had finished, I asked tentatively:  
"How did I get here?"  
Her laugh was throaty and deep, for a woman.  
"You really mean to ask why you are talking to me instead of Kelemvor." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "The little hamlet you know as Harvest Moon is... older than you know. And dear to my heart. I occasionally take some liberty with the souls that float up from that corner of the world. Most of them are destined for me, anyway." Her gaze became more serious. "You, however, are a slightly different matter."

I could not think of a single intelligent response for this woman, this goddess, who had intercepted my doomed, faithless soul. I stared dumbly at her. I wondered whether Talona's involvement had anything to do with her actions. As though she read the question in my eyes, she waved her hand dismissively. "That pestilent old hag is little more than a pebble in my shoe. Of course, if she doesn't play by the rules, why should I?" Ah, of course. Chauntea would not have to answer for her interference, since Talona had struck first - she was merely responding, justifiably so. "I must admit, however, that I was not too displeased when she destroyed that stone monstrosity in my likeness." She chuckled to herself, and continued:

"I don't usually bother with the intrigues of the Others; They are generally a little too grand for me. But I think you are going to become difficult to ignore." She leaned forward. "I am not one to rely on rumours. I would hear from your own lips what your intentions are."

"I mean to bring down the Wall of the Faithless." A direct answer; I believed nothing less would have satisfied her.  
Her expression hardened.  
"Why?"

Why? That was not a response I had anticipated. Doubt, encouragement, even ridicule - these would not have surprised me. What interest could a god have in the motivations of a mortal? The question was, however, a relevant one.

Because it was the "good" thing to do? What did that mean? I wished to do good, yes, but I had made difficult choices in the past - sometimes having to choose the lesser of two evils. Morality was not always black and white; I knew that ultimate success may require sacrifice, compromise. I held a broader view - something that not everyone could understand. I knew, also, that the Wall incarcerated many unrepentant evil souls.

For justice? Justice for whom? Many in the Wall undoubtedly had done much to deserve their fate. Besides that, I was not a paladin of Tyr. I acted fairly, and protected the rights of others, but I could not claim to be a champion of justice.

To save my own soul? If all I wanted was redemption, it would be easier to swear fealty to a god than to be drawn into a celestial battle - a battle that I seemed unlikely to survive.

No, I could not claim to be perfectly good, perfectly just, or even simply selfish.

"Choice." I said finally. "Mortals should serve the gods out of choice - made freely, not out of fear. Or be free in their choice _not_ to serve." Chauntea's expression remained unchanged. She looked at me, ponderously, for a long while. At last she spoke again:  
"You are sincere. Your words are reasonable and you are not blinded by fanatacism, as some of your predecessors have been"  
"Will you stand against the Wall, then?" I asked.

"I have nurtured the soil of Faerun since the birth of the world. I fostered the lives of its earliest inhabitants. How many thousands of lives will be lost if the gods are at war? How many scars will marr the earth when the dust settles? Seedlings will be crushed into the mud; animals and humans will see their young consumed by flame and the ground will be stained with their blood." Her words cut deeply. "No, child - I shall not aid you in your destruction."

"I do not seek destruction, but I will do what I believe is right. Terrible as the cost may be." My words left a painful ache in my chest, but I said them with conviction.

Surprisingly, her gaze softened.  
"You see much, but you do not see all. But perhaps all is not lost. I believe there is much for you to learn, yet; I shall not let Kelemvor toss you to the Wall this day. I ask only this: before you allow yourself to be drafted into a war you do not understand, consider the consequences."

My eyelids felt heavy and my vision became unfocussed. Chauntea's voice was a disembodied echo as the world dissolved around me:

"Brace yourself, girl; my clerics are about to congratulate themselves upon your resurrection. And take pity on the child - her father will be worried."


	6. The Mind's Eye

**Author's Note: Credit to the talented KaanaMoonshadow at deviantART. Her rendering entitled "Katalmach" inspired part of this chapter.**

_The moon was full; the light of it shimmered on the rippling water below. The cool evening air was heavy with the scent of leaves. Dense vegetation surrounded the pool, held in the stony palm of the rock face, ascending out of sight above the trees. A thick tree trunk rose from between the rocks at one end of the pool, its roots clawing for purchase upon the stone. One of its broad, moss-covered bows arched above the glimmering surface, dangling long tendrils of vine down into the water. Suspended above the water, I reclined cat-like on the sturdy branch, resting my chin on the back of my hand. My hair fell loosely over my shoulder in a sheer black curtain as I gazed down at the pond below._

_It was a still evening, with barely a breeze stirring the leaves around me. The living sound of nocturnal creatures was punctuated by quiet splashes from the pool. The evening lilies had unfurled their delicate beauty, and an exquisitely crafted war hammer lay on the grass, casting its own enchanted glow. I hardly noticed these._

_My eyes were captured by the form of a man in the water, a few feet beneath me. Stripped to his waist, his skin glistened as the water carried away the grime of battle. A languid smile tugged at my lips as I considered his modesty - even here, away from prying eyes. I was certain I had escaped his notice. Musingly, I admired the masculine lines of his powerful body._

_Slowly, I extended a slender leg. The fine fabric of my pale shift strained against the bare skin of my thigh. I brushed his shoulder with the tip of my toe. He whipped around, but I had already snatched my leg away. He looked around, but did not lift his gaze to my elevated perch. He fingered one of the nearby vines, thoughtfully. After a momentary pause, he continued his bath, running a wash cloth over the back of his neck._

_I reached down once again, more slowly this time. My foot hovered tentatively, inches above his head. Lightning-quick, he reached up and grasped my calf in his wet hand. I gasped in surprise. Casavir turned his face up towards me, an unusually boyish grin playing over his regal features._

_"The maiden cannot think that I would be ignorant of her lovely presence?" he teased._

_Not waiting for a response, he reached up and placed his large hands around my waist. My protests dissolved in laughter as he easily pulled me down from my mossy chaise. I shrieked delightedly as the cold water touched my skin and my shift billowed around me._

_"I see that I shall have to be more stealthy next time, my lord" I gasped, shivering from the cold._

_He drew me against him, his skin warm despite the cold water. He whispered hoarsely in my ear:_

_"You are a beacon, my lady; stealth could not hide you from me."_

_Twining my arms around his bare shoulders, I gripped his hips between my knees..._

Pain. Waves of heat rolled off my body as I burned with fever. Every laboured breath was agony and my body shook with rigors. I was aware of something cool and wet on my forehead. I heard a splash of water. As the sponge was drawn across my neck and shoulder, my exquisitely sensitive skin felt as though it were being peeled off. I cried out, and sank back into oblivion.

_The dust lay in a thin film underneath the writing desk. The tiny toy wagon left a swirling set of tracks in its wake as it careened round and round. I was reminded of the time when Pitney Lannon's father took their wagon after an evening of mead-sodden merriment (as Daeghun had called it) and left tracks all over the village green. I giggled. The miniature wagon spun drunkenly, and toppled on its side, one wheel spinning in the air. I reached out a small, sticky hand and set it back on its wheels. I concentrated on unfocussing my eyes, seeing the ethereal silver wisps that wove all around me. I reached out with my mind, willing them to converge on the wooden toy. It lurched forward, then veered to the side and thudded into the leg of the desk._

_"Stupid wagon." I mumbled to myself "Why won't it go straight?"_

_I heard the front door open downstairs, followed by voices. Intrigued, I scrambled out from beneath the desk. Daeghun rarely received visitors. Barefoot, I padded down the hall to the landing at the top of the stairs, and listened._

_"...don't understand why you insisted on taking her in the first place!" Brother Merring sounded angry. I frowned; I liked the kindly cleric, he was always nice to me._

_"My decisions are none of your concern, Merring. I would advise you to reserve your devotions - and your opinions - for those who express need of them. And you shall find none such in this house." Though Daeghun's tone was as even and measured as always, I was immediately aware of the irritation in his voice._

_"I may be able to... _understand_, if not condone, your rejection of faith, Daughun. But I cannot stand by quietly and watch you ruin the child with your cynicism. She has a right to learn of teachings of the gods..."_

_"She has a right to learn_ facts_. She has a right not__ to have her mind sullied by empty rituals, and meaningless prayers to deaf gods." Daughun's voice remained quiet, but was dangerously barbed. It was deathly still in the house for a moment, before Brother Merring replied:_

_"I had hoped that time would heal your wounds, Daeghun, and that you would learn to treat the girl with kindness. But I see now that your loss has festered into bitterness. I pray for the child, but I fear it may already be too late. And as for _facts_, I surmise that you have been rather sparing with those, also."_

_"Get out." Daeghun's voice was flat. But Brother Merring pressed on:_

_"Shayla would weep if she could see what you have become. And Esmerelle..."_

_"GET OUT!" I shrank back instinctively; I had never heard Daeghun raise his voice before. He was often cold, certainly, and detached, but never given to temper. I heard the door slam, and felt the reverberations in the floorboards. I peered hesitantly around the balustrade._

_Daeghun was leaning against the door, his head back and his eyes closed. It frightened me that he looked suddenly old and tired. I crept noiselessly down the stairs and stood in front of him, looking up at his face. I was horrified to see tears glimmering on his eyelashes. He opened his eyes. I expected him to be angry._

_Instead, he reached down and brushed the hair from my face with a gentleness that was alien to me. I stared up at him, wide-eyed._

_"You look just like your mother." he said softly._

_"Was she beautiful?" I asked, hopefully._

_"Yes. Yes, she was." He seemed lost in thought. Suddenly, he seemed to wake from a dream, a firm expression settling like a mask over his face._

_"I believe you have not completed your tasks for the day, young lady. That certainly will not do."_

My eyelids were too heavy to open. Memories, dreams, desires, nightmares - I had been drifting in and out of them for... I had no idea how long. A woman spoke, her voice muted:

"...and at least her breathing seems easier. The healer from Highcliff said the fever might take days to break - we'll have to be patient and allow her body to recover in its own time. I only hope that she wakes enough to eat something soon."

_The stone walls around me seemed familiar, yet I could not recall where I had seen them before. I walked down a long, twisting corridor. Every few feet, light streamed in from grilles set in a high ceiling - this passageway was below ground level. I noticed that my footsteps were oddly silent. Looking down at my hands, I saw that they appeared translucent, insubstantial._

_The corridor widened, and ended blindly in a dark cul-de-sac. A massive round trapdoor was set in the floor, a heavy metal ring in the centre. Looking up at the ceiling, I saw another ring set in the stonework above my head. A winch had been built into the wall to my right - the mechanism was obviously meant for opening the door, but I could see no chain or rope to attach to it. I knelt down to examine the door - and found, to my astonishment, that my hand disappeared through the dark, heavy wood._

_I stood up, and trod experimentally on the door - as I expected, I started to drift slowly down. Below the door, a wide, vertical tunnel plunged into the earth. A narrow stone staircase corkscrewed in a downward spiral along the wall of the tunnel, but I simply floated down in the centre. Metal sconces in the wall held dancing flames, barely illuminating the masonry. I was not alone - a woman was upon the staircase, descending with quick steps. She wore a figure-hugging, dark-coloured robe with a gleaming silver cord around her waist, and her face was hidden in a deep cowl. She carried a long-stemmed, unlit torch._

_I reached the bottom at last. The air was damp and reeked of mold. The woman stepped off the staircase and planted the torch firmly in a small indentation in the middle of the floor. She had walked right through me; I shuddered, but she remained unaware of my presence. She muttered a foreign incantation and the torch ignited, bathing the pit in light._

_The prisoner was on his knees, his wrists shackled to the wall behind him. He was painfully thin, and his head hung limply to one side. His filthy, matted hair covered his face. A circle of runes had been painted on the floor around him, and on the wall. My eyes swam as I tried to read them._

_"My apologies for keeping you waiting this morning, fair one." The woman's voice was shrill and girlish. She kicked the prisoner savagely. He startled awake, coughing and gasping, but did not lift his head._

_"You have disappointed me thus far, my love," she continued conversationally, as she withdrew a slim blade she had concealed in her sleeve. "Perhaps I have not used my persuasive powers with enough zeal." She took his hand, tenderly, tracing his palm with her pale fingers. Abruptly, she grasped one of his fingers and jammed the tip of the blade beneath his nail. He let out a stifled moan, but did not cry out. I had no voice here, and The Weave was hidden from me. Unarmed, I rushed at the woman, but my incorporeal form merely drifted harmlessly through her._

_"Is that unpleasant?" Her sugary voice cooed. "Would you like me to stop?"_

_"The lady is merciful." The voice was strained and muffled, but chillingly familiar. The woman withdrew the blade._

_Gann looked up at last, his eyes blazing in his dirt-streaked face.  
"Merciful indeed. Your hood slipped back a little, witch - I feared for a moment that you would force me to look upon your face."_

_She gave a piercing shriek of rage, and slashed at his face._

My eyes blinked open. I was lying on the narrow cot in my room at the Moonshine Inn. I tried to sit up, shaking my head groggily. So many dreams had haunted my delirium; the details were gone, yet I felt a lingering unease. A candle had been lit on the small table by my bedside, dispelling the early evening gloom. A moth danced around the flame, casting fluttering shadows on the walls.

The door was ajar. I recognised the small, fair-haired child hovering uncertainly at the threshold. I smiled weakly at her. She walked hesitantly into the room. Her golden eyes followed the moth's chaotic flight. She reached out, and the moth sat upon her extended finger. Cupping the creature gently in her hand, she walked over to the window, raising her arms high above her head.

"Don't burn your wings. Then you can't fly to heaven anymore." Her soft voice was unearthly beautiful. The moth beat its wings and disappeared into the dusk.

She walked back to me, and slipped her small hand into mine. Music filled my head, a faint, haunting melody. I felt the last ache drain from my body.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Sun." she whispered.


	7. Broken Song

A sombre atmosphere hung over the tavern of the Moonshine Inn. The fire in the hearth dispelled some of the early morning chill, but it added no cheer. I had been sitting alone at a small table near the windows, contemplating my mug of tea for well over an hour. Although all the heat had long since gone from the insipid brew, I kept my fingers firmly clasped around the thick earthenware.

The priestess of Talona's attack on the village had been almost a month ago. My memory of what had passed since then was a maddening patchwork of half-recalled dreams and vague images. I knew I owed my life to the goddess Chauntea. I knew that she had spoken to me, but beyond the fact that she disapproved of my intentions regarding the Wall, I could not remember the conversation.

"You'll turn that mug into a toad if you keep staring at it like that, my dear." A woman's concerned voice pulled me out of my reverie.

Willa had taken over the running of the Inn following the attack. Almost a third of the village's populace had succumbed in the cloud of poison - among the dead were the former proprietor of the Inn and the barmaid - Willa's husband and daughter. The survivors were mainly those who lived on the outskirts of town, or on the surrounding farms. Others, like Willa, had escaped death by being away on errands. She had gone to Highcliff for supplies, and had spent the night there to avoid travelling back in the blizzard. She returned to Harvest Moon the following day, to find her life destroyed.

I had finally recovered most of my strenghth, aided by the ministrations of Chauntea's clerics. Brown-robed figures were constantly at my bedside during the days of my relapsing fever, saying their prayers and burning their incense. Yet it was Willa's soothing voice I remembered most clearly. With her family gone, she had needed to care for someone.

Besides me, she had also taken on another charge. My eyes swept around the room.

"Where is Sun, Willa?" I asked the woman, as she absent-mindedly wiped the table for the fifteenth time.

"Gods, that child! She's slipped out again!" She dropped her dish-towel and hurried towards the door. I intercepted her deftly, and placed a gently restraining hand on her arm.

"I'll go." I said firmly. She nodded, her face creased with worry. She was an extraordinarily strong woman, but the pain of her loss was still fresh in the shadows under her eyes, and in the sagging of her shoulders.

The cemetery at the edge of town bordered a glade of fir trees. One side of the fence had been broken down out of necessity, since the small piece of earth it demarcated was not large enough to accommodate so many recently dead. Row upon row of fresh graves stood beyond the perimeter of the torn-down fence, some even among the trees. Each was simply marked with a hastily planted stake, bearing the name of the decedent scratched in the wood. With time, a new fence would be erected and the graves tended by grieving families, but at that moment the cemetery bore stark testimony to the horror that had befallen these farmers. It was not the first time I had witnessed such a thing.

At the base of a large evergreen was the grave that I sought. On that grey day, there was no ray of sunlight to fall upon the sad picture. A child-sized blue cloak was spread over the mound of earth and a little figure sat huddled in the snow beside it. The wooden grave marker bore the name _Vayelle_.

The child was clad only in a red linen dress, offering little protection against the elements. She sat perfectly still and gave no indication that she heard my approach. I removed my own cloak and placed it carefully around her shoulders. I kneeled down beside her, staring at the same spot that held her gaze.

"I think Mama is cold" she said, without looking away from the mound, beneath which her mother's body had been interred. This was the third time I had come to retrieve the child from the frigid cemetery. I felt hopelessly out of my depth; I had been too young to understand loss when my own mother had died, and I had little experience in dealing with children. Nonetheless, I had to try:

"Sun, I don't believe the cold can hurt your mother anymore." She finally turned her golden eyes up to me. Her lips were dusky blue and she was shivering. Without speaking, I shaped a glassy barrier around us, warming the air that it enclosed with a wave of my hand.

"Not the snow." she replied, shaking her head. "Another cold. She isn't here anymore, but I can't go to where she is." Confused by the child's words, I asked:

"If you think she has moved on, why do you want to be here, Sun?"

"I don't know where else to go." she replied, frowning. Something stirred in the recesses of my mind; a dream-like memory, as though from the thoughts of someone else:

_...take pity on the child - her father will be worried_

Father? Willa's comments had indicated that Sun and her mother had travelled alone; it was generally assumed that Vayelle had to sing for coin after suffering the disgrace of an illegitimately conceived child. She had never mentioned family, or a partner. In fact, she had spoken very little with the locals, and it seemed her history was not something she had wished to share.

"Do you know who your father is, Sun?" I asked, cringing inwardly. I was loathe to ask such a question, but I knew somehow that it was important.

"His name is Milil" she said.

--

The wind howled down the mountain pass as we descended into the frozen valley. A lake of ice lay far below us. The sky was clear, and although the winter sun made little impact on the biting cold, the snowy landscape was blindingly bright around us.

Sun and I had departed from the Moonshine Inn a few days after her startling revelation, leaving a bewildered Willa with the inadequate promise that we would return. After more careful questioning, Sun had confirmed to me that she believed her father to be Milil, the god of music. Of course, her eyes were testimony to her Planar heritage, and she positively radiated divine power. But the child of a god?

Even more incredible was her claim that she had met Milil in person on several occasions, and that her mother had visited him even more often. Though rare, it was not unknown for gods to take mortal lovers from time to time - but they did not maintain relationships with them. And from what I could discern, Vayelle may have been a gifted bard, but she was otherwise a normal human woman.

I had not spoken to Willa of this; I was concerned that, regardless of whether it was true or not, the information might endanger Sun. I had resolved to travel with the child to Waterdeep, putting my plans to return to Neverwinter on hold. I had hoped the Patriarch of Milil might shed some light upon the situation - and perhaps aid me in my quest, also.

Then one morning, Sun had told me that she could hear her father. She wanted to go to him, and believed she could find him by following the sound of his voice. She said that his voice had changed and that she could not understand him, but she was certain that it was Milil. She had remarkably finely tuned hearing, and was able to detect sounds far beyond the range of normal mortal ears. And so once again, my plans had to change; as an elven mage, I found that unsettling. Instead of studying all the available information and taking my time to reach the most logical decision, I had set out into the wintry wild beyond Harvest Moon, guided by a bereaved child, following a voice I could not hear.

My initial awkwardness in relating to Sun had been greatly reduced by the fact that the child was completely at ease with me. She did not speak often, but her silence was comfortable and what little she did say displayed insight far beyond her years.

"Who is the man in your dream?" she asked, when we had stopped to rest. I leaned against the large boulder sheltering us from the wind. My stomach twisted painfully at her question.

"His name is... was Casavir." I replied, trying to keep my voice light. Sun wrinkled her forehead, squinting up at me, and slowly shook her head:

"No... I think his name is Gann." My heart thudded unevenly at her words, and another foreign memory stirred in the turbid recesses of my mind. "I hear you calling him, and you sound afraid and... and angry."

"I don't remember." I whispered. An image flashed momentarily before my eyes, of stone walls and a dark wooden trapdoor. An inexplicable feeling of dread crept into my heart, and remained there after the image faded. Unconsciously, I reached up and touched the amulet around my neck. It felt strangely warm.

The wind started to gust around us with renewed force, gathering clouds overhead. The nature of the wind was changed, though I could not say what the difference was in its sound. Sun closed her eyes, listening.

"Daddy is not far away anymore. Why doesn't he hear my voice?" she looked scared. Worried, I considered snatching up the child and abandoning this ill-advised search. As though she could hear my thoughts, Sun clasped my hands urgently, her eyes wide and pleading:

"Please, we must go to him!" I picked her up, raising a combination of shields around us. It seemed to cut off all sound from outside, and the air around us became perfectly still.

"Can you still hear him?" I asked, doubtfully.

"Yes." Her voice was muffled in the collar of my cloak as she clung to me. The wind buffeted violently against my shields, but they remained impervious.

"Daddy is really angry." said Sun's voice into my neck.

"Let's hope Daddy doesn't get any angrier." I muttered.

--

We reached the lake of ice at the bottom of the vale. A swirling mass of angry purple cloud spiralled above us, darkening the sky. The shower of sleet was whipped into thousands of tiny daggers by the roaring gale. We watched all of this from within our cocoon, but we remained untouched.

A low, keening sound reached my ears. It was barely audible to me, but Sun covered her ears and whined softly - she must have found the sound painful. I drew on the Weave, attempting to block her sense of hearing. The sound grew slightly louder, and Sun screamed - my spell had no effect on her. Thinking quickly, I strained to listen to the sound over Sun's cries. Coming from outside, the noise was causing my shield to resonate at a frequency very near the limit of my elven hearing. I fed energy into the shield, pulsing with a counter-harmonic. The sound was instantly gone.

As we neared the centre of the lake, the wind abruptly ceased its pounding against my defences. I could see the tempest raging all around us, but we had reached the centre. The eye of the storm. I looked up, and gasped at the fantastic sight illuminating the sky.

Above us hovered an enormous harp, the height of six men. It appeared to have been fashioned from a mirror-like, silver metal. Vine leaves were stylised on its body. The harp's glowing strings were a blur as they vibrated. It was a thing of immense beauty.

But the leaves were burning; tongues of ghostly fire leaped from the slowly twisting instrument. Bolts of white-hot lightning arced from the strings to the surrounding clouds, feeding their violent energy. It was a thing of terrifying power.

On the ground sat a human man, his arms wrapped around his knees, his head bowed. His cloak was the same dark blue as Sun's had been. He was finely dressed, but his clothes were soiled and dishevelled. He raised his head.

His dark blond hair fell in waves to his shoulders. His features were strongly masculine, yet finely chiseled, with prominent cheekbones and lips that were full, for a man. His deep violet eyes were fixed upon us, but seemed strangely unfocused. He was the most absurdly handsome man I had ever seen.

Sun twisted in my arms, turning her face towards the man. Confusion flashed across his face. The harp overhead slowed its rotating, and stopped. The Avatar slowly rose to his feet, his features now an unreadable mask.

"Sun?" His voice should have been beautiful. It should have been the most perfect melody ever heard by mortal ears. It should have been, but it was not. It was a dry, broken rasp. Sun hesitated momentarily at the sound of his voice, but then squirmed out of my grasp.

"Daddy!" she ran to him, slipping slightly on the sleek surface of the ice. He fell to his knees, scooping the girl into his embrace. He clung to her like a drowning man. Finally, he loosened his grip, smoothing her hair with a shaking hand.

"I thought you were lost, little one."

"I could hear Mama's song when I was hiding from the poison." Vayelle had kept Sun alive with a bardsong only she could hear; she knew that if Nalissa heard her, she would die, and that would mean Sun's death, also. Ultimately, she had sacrificed herself to allow me to kill Nalissa.

Torment burned in the Avatar's eyes.

"Vayelle." he moaned. I stood watching him, my mind reeling with questions. How had this god, vain and arrogant as he was said to be, come to love an ordinary human? Had he, notorious for his multitude of lovers, actually made a _family_ with her? Why had he been unaware of his daughter's survival? And, perhaps more immediately relevant, did he blame me for Vayelle's death?


	8. The God's Lament

The Avatar of Milil's eyes remained fixed on his daughter. Sun ran her small hands over his face, tracing its contours, as a blind person would. Sun's hearing was so astute that she had learned to depend on it more than on her other senses. With Milil's voice so obviously changed, it was as though she could not see him clearly.

"I know the music in your head, but your voice is broken, Daddy." her clear voice piped. "Was it the poison?" Worry creased her pale face, and she placed both her palms against Milil's throat. Her frown deepened as she concentrated. "I don't know how to fix it.", she said, perplexed. Then her face brightened, and she turned to look at me. "This lady can help us. Bad things are scared of her."

I had to smile at this.

At last Milil tore his gaze away from the little girl in his arms, and looked at me. Seeing him more closely now, a spark of recognition flashed in my mind as I looked into his eyes. Buried in their impossible violet depths, I saw a familiar ache - the same that lay in the grey eyes that stared back at me when I looked in a mirror. Milil's ruined voice was a symptom of something else - more mundane than magic or poison, perhaps, but no less destructive.

He had a broken heart.

The unfocused, almost vacant glaze that had covered his eyes at first, had disappeared when he held Sun. The loss of one's mate is a crippling agony, but the loss of a child...

I had seen the face of Bevil's mother, Retta, when his youngest brother had drowned in the river. Milil had been half-crazed by the thought that his daughter had died, and he had been caged by his own pain, unable to see or hear anything beyond it.

"Thank you.", his voice grated. It was still a gravelly, unattractive sound, but at least it now resembled a normal human voice. "If not for you, my child would not have survived. Talona's death-dealer would have left no-one alive."

I thought it wise not to point out that no-one would have died, had the priestess not come for me.

Sun was mesmerised by the silver harp that hung in the air above us, now silent. She walked in a circle on the ground beneath it, craning her neck.

"It was my fault.", he whispered. I stared at him in disbelief. What could possibly have lead him to that conclusion? Instead of answers, I seemed to be discovering more questions.

Speaking for the first time, I blurted out:

"That makes no sense." My cheeks immediately coloured at my rudeness. "Pardon me, my lord. I meant no offense, but I do not see the logic in your statement."

He did not seem offended. In fact, a ghost of a smile teased the corners of his lips. It disappeared so quickly that I wondered whether I had imagined it.

"You came to this place because you were drawn to me. Had I not been here, or if I had not been... distracted, this attack may never have occurred." Seeing that I was no less mystified, he continued. "I know who you are, and what you plan to do. It seems that part of your mortal soul sensed the presence of a god here, and compelled you to seek me out."

I shook my head, vaguely irritated.

"I was travelling to Neverwinter, to visit the temple of Tyr. I was not aware of your presence here."

He arched an eyebrow at my words.

"Your mind is powerful, mortal, but you must realise that it is not attuned to all things." I suppressed my indignation with difficulty, but did not interrupt. "I chose this place to visit my Vayelle. She liked the stillness of the village nearby, and I have no quarrel with Chauntea. I sensed no danger to my girls here.

"Vayelle made a fool of me.", he smiled sadly, "I have known many beautiful women, but her I loved." This man was very different from the jovial lover of women and song, as he was traditionally portrayed.

"In this form, it is easier to relate to mortals, but I become less sensitive in other ways. I did not know of your approach, nor of the chaos that swirls in your wake. Consequently, I was also unaware of those who hunted you, until it was too late. Vayelle cried out to me moments before her death." He exhaled with the tired, trembling sigh of one who has no more tears. My heart ached in sympathy.

Another inconsistency nagged at me. Milil was a god, not bound to this plane as mortals were. What was death to him? Why mourn a woman whose soul he could simply accept into the House of Knowledge?

"Why do you remain here? Can you not re-unite with her on your home plane? And surely Sun could..."

He cut my words off harshly:

"You are one of the Faithless, are you not?" he barked at me.

"I worship no god." I snapped in return

"Then you should understand, mortal." Quieter this time, but his condescending words got the better of my already glowing temper.

Understanding is what I _did_, it was the root of all my power. But trying to make sense of religion shrouded in vagueness, preaching blind acceptance without explanation? I did not despise it the way Daeghun did, but it frustrated and angered me.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Avatar.", I seethed.

This time, his smile was unmistakable.

"Your quiet demeanour and serene beauty belie your temper, lady. Not to speak of your arrogance."

"_Make_ me understand, then!", I shouted, "Explain to me the value of faith, if not even a _god_ can save his lover from death!"

He did not respond in kind. Instead he looked away, as though ashamed. He spoke quietly:

"Vayelle _loved _me, she did not _worship_ me. And how can the lover of one god worship another?" He clenched his jaw, closing his eyes.

"Her soul is not mine to take. Kelemvor has cast her into the Wall."

The words of my reply were lost in the sudden burst of sound that rang out around us. The harp had come to life once more, but this time it shone in all its silvery glory. The echo of its full, orchestral sound thundered around the valley. Sun was no longer standing on the ground below the divine instrument. She floated in the air, her feet off the ground and her back arched. Her arms were spread wide, and she was suffused with a soft golden glow.

She lifted her arms above her head, and the sound grew deafening. The light she emitted flared brilliantly.

And the world disappeared.


	9. Spy Glass

Golden light filtered softly down from glass panels in the high, vaulted ceiling. The room in which I stood was cast in a warm, late-afternoon glow. It was not large; perhaps an ante-chamber of some kind. An arched window permitted a view of voluminous white cloud below, and brilliant blue sky above. The walls were lined with polished wooden shelves. Many housed stacks of rolled parchment and leather-bound volumes; others held an assortment of musical instruments, ranging from elaborate burnished brass creations to humbler wooden pieces. An archive of music - not comprehensive; rather an intimate, personal collection of rarities, lovingly gathered.

Milil sat on a three-legged stool, a harp between his knees. Though beautiful, I could not detect any magical enhancement on the instrument. The sound it produced, however, had a magic of its own - a reflection of the musician. Milil's long fingers caressed the strings, giving voice to the depth of his loss. Lovely as the sound was, I could not listen to it for long. I looked for the door, and left quietly.

Free from the spell of Milil's music, I pondered my new surroundings. Reason dictated that this had to be the House of Knowledge; I assumed Sun had triggered a portal of some kind in the frozen valley, transporting us here. I felt disorientated, and could not be sure how much time had passed since my arrival. Considering my recent experiences, this no longer surprised me. I did not know where Sun was, but I was certain that she was safer here than anywhere else.

I found myself in a long passageway. At one distant end, I could make out a set of ornate double doors, arched in the same style as the window in the music room. At the other end of the passage, a grand staircase rose to the floor above. Each step was carved from a solid piece of pale stone, emitting a soft white glow.The lower half of the staircase was split in two limbs, gracefully curving around a central alcove as they descended to meet the floor. Within the alcove stood a large oblong mirror, supported in a four-legged wooden frame. It was turned at an oblique angle; I could not see my reflection in it from where I stood.

The walls on each side of the passage were darkly panelled, the colour of a starless night sky. Vague flashes of colour eddied behind the smooth, polished surface. My reflection blinked back at me, mirroring my searching gaze. I noticed that I was no longer wearing my old robes and cloak.

A gown of shimmering white hugged my body as though it had been cut for me, the colour emphasising the midnight shade of my hair. The sheer layers of fabric scattered the light that fell upon it, creating flashes of colour. The bodice was fitted and the long sleeves tapered into points at the wrists. The skirt was gathered at the waist and fell in soft, tapering folds down to the floor. Incredibly, I found that it did not impede my movements; it seemed to flow around my body with such lightness that I was barely aware of it.

A door set in the opposite wall drew my attention. It was slightly ajar. Curiosity propelled me forward, until I could see through the crack into the room beyond. I was able to make out a dome-shaped metal construction, a number of grey spheres orbiting it. I pushed the door open and walked in.

I stood alone in the room. I could see no walls, no ceiling - just empty blackness around the platform upon which I stood. Considering the impossible dimensions that the empty space implied, I cast a small glowing orb at the darkness. It rebounded on an unseen obstruction at the edge of the platform, confirming my suspicion that the space beyond the platform was an illusion.

I studied the strange creation in the centre of the room. A dial was visible on the surface of the construct, set in an oval face. The face depicted spheres in various degrees of shadow - the phases of Faerun's moon. Walking around, I saw a clear panel on the opposite side of the dome, allowing a narrow view of the inside. The device contained an intricate series of immobile gears, levers and metal coils. Looking at the spinning spheres, I realised their purpose. I held up my right hand, and felt a gentle tug on my polished metal ring. One of the spheres drifted wide for a moment, before retuning to its circular path. I smiled at the ingenuity of the idea, though I could see a flaw in the design. Perhaps if the magnets could spin faster...?

I drew on the Weave and accelerated the small spheres. The gears shuddered, but the dial remained fixed. No, the force was simply not enough...

"Halt!" An angry voice interrupted my thoughts. My concentration broken, I turned abruptly towards the sound.

A short, stocky man, clad in leathers, stood in the doorway. His sandy hair flared around his face and his eyes flashed dangerously. I stood watching him, waiting for him to speak again. A sardonic grin spread over his face.

"I see that Milil does not waste time. One would think his life is as finite as those of the wenches with whom he fornicates." He shook his head and gave a short, harsh laugh. "Personally, I find you even more pleasing on the eye than the blond. Nonetheless, I do not think it appropriate for Milil's conquests to be wandering around the House unsupervised - if at all." All mirth was suddenly gone from his voice. "Return to your lover. Tell him that your presence here will not be tolerated again." He turned to leave.

"It will not work." I called after him. He spun around, annoyance plain on his face.

"You test my patience, mortal. I have no interest in your doomed pursuits, but if your delusions of grandeur involve giving _me_ advice, you will regret it."

"You have built a device to track the phases of the moon." I replied calmly "The magnets you have used are too small; even at great speed they will not generate a large enough field to power the mechanism..."

The platform disappeared beneath my feet as I was flung backwards. My head rang as I slammed into the invisible barrier around the room. I remained pinned there, like a rag doll, unable to move or speak. The man's face was red, but he had not even moved.

"Any more insights you wish to share?", he sneered.

"Leave her, Gond." Milil's voice rasped. The sandy-haired man turned slowly to face him. I sagged to the ground, spots floating before my eyes.

"The wayward son returns, I see. Though it seems you remain unrepentantly set in your ways. Not learned your lesson yet?" Gond's voice was saturated with contempt.

Milil did not reply. He walked over to me and helped me to my feet.

"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.

"No." I lied. I was not about to admit it in front of Gond, whom I instantly loathed, but I had to lean against Milil for support.

"Wayward son?" A calm voice came from the door, diffusing the tense atmosphere. My vision blurred as I tried to look over Milil's shoulder towards the newcomer. "The irony of your words is priceless, Gond. Perhaps if you were here more often, and less careless with your projects, the girl would not have to explain your errors to you."

I heard heavy footfalls as Gond stalked wordlessly from the room.

"Tend to her injury, Milil. I expect to see you both when she is recovered." The mysterious newcomer followed Gond out of the room. After a moment, Milil spoke:

"Your wisdom does not parallel you intellect, lady; perhaps you would be better off _not_ humiliating a god in his own realm again?" I squinted at his face, trying to read his expression. Once again, I thought I detected a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Perhaps we would _all_ be better off if the gods were not so inflated with their own importance." I countered. Milil sighed in resignation.

"That tongue will be the end of us all."

I swayed unsteadily. Being swatted like a fly had not been a pleasant experience, and I felt light-headed and nauseous. I wondered with growing impatience why Milil was not healing me. It was possible that he thought my discomfort might serve as a lesson; that would be so very _godly_ of him. I glared up at him, but did not dare let go of his arm.

"I am sorry, but I am not able to heal you." His cheeks reddend slightly as he said this, and he looked away, avoiding my accusing stare.

I did not even bother to ask why not - I was certain that I would receive some nonsensical answer that defied all logic.

Quick, light footsteps approached and I looked up to see the hazy outline of a slight, dark-haired man hurrying towards us. He touched my forehead lightly. The pain throbbed sharply behind my eyes and then vanished. I blinked a few times and the haziness receded.

"I apologise, healing is not my primary interest. Silvanus regards this technique as antiquated, though recent work by the clerics of Lathander suggests that the more modern methods do not consider the long-term effects on memory and..." He looked at the blank space behind me as he spoke.

"Thank you, Deneir. Your help is much appreciated." Milil's rough voice interrupted the small man's prattling. Deneir's sharp elven features were set in a concerned expression as his dark eyes fixed upon Milil.

"It is good to see you, my brother. My deepest sympathy for your loss." He placed an ink-stained hand on Milil's shoulder. Milil nodded in acknowledgement, but did not speak. The two men walked to the door.

"Please follow." Deneir instructed, again avoiding looking at me.

Back in the passage, I saw Deneir pause before ascending the staircase. He was looking intently at the mirror I had seen earlier. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes very briefly skimmed over me, before he turned and scuttled up the stairs, out of sight. As I walked nearer, the mirror came into full view.

Instead of my reflection, I saw the dizzying recursive image of many identical mirrors, one within the other, until the center became indistinct. I was looking at the mirror as though my eyes were mirrors, also. I came to the unsettling conclusion that this was not a mirror - it was a window, and my eyes were the glass. Anyone else who looked in this mirror would see whatever I was looking at, at that moment. Oddly, I could not sense any kind of magic on the... spy glass. How was it linked to me? Did it also work on others? It was fascinating, but the sense of violation I felt exceeded my interest.

Hastily, I fled up the stairs. As desperately as I wanted an explanation, I doubted that I was in any position to make demands.


	10. The White Queen

"Now, my dear, where are you going to put your horse this time? Over here, perhaps?" The kindly voice sounded familiar.

"No!" I heard Sun giggle. "Then your priest will take my queen." Sun was perched on a chair that was much too high for a child, her feet dangling in the air. She was leaning forward over the chessboard in rapt attention.

At the other end of the table, an older man leaned back in his chair and laughed.

"Ah, Sun, I see I am not going to win this round, either!" The man was handsome in his maturity, slender, with his hair dark, apart from some greying at the temples.

Seeing me, Sun squealed in delight and scrambled down from the chair. She ran to me and wrapped her arms around my legs. She looked up at me, and then stepped back.

"You look so pretty." she breathed. Grabbing my hand, she tugged me forward.

"Come and talk to Oghma - you will like him."

"I have a better game for us to play." Oghma said conspiratorially to Sun. "It's downstairs - ask Deneir to show you, while I talk to your friend." To me he said: "I trust you are feeling better? You must forgive Gond; he is unused to being challenged. I hope that you do not mind the liberty I took with your attire - your own clothing and possessions will be returned to you when you leave. Please keep the gown," he said, gesturing at the white robe I wore, "it will enhance you considerable talents. It is the least I can do to express my regret at the indignity you have suffered in my House."

I took a moment to survey the room. It was massive. The floor was paved with the same glowing stone as the stairs had been. In the high curved wall, I saw many windows. Each was carved in the same ached manner as the window and doors I had seen on the floor below, but the view from each was different. Amazingly, I could see ocean, jungle and desert as though they were side by side. Day and night; snow, lightning, sunshine; each framed its own living picture. In front of each window stood a plinth, supporting a stack of parchment. Looking carefully at the stack nearest to me, I could see drops of ink bleed from the parchment and coalesce into a fine, cursive script. History literally writing itself. Deneir bustled around the room, replacing stacks of parchment, examining the work and occasionally making notes of his own. Milil stood at one window, his back to the room. Looking past him, I could see the snowy landscape around Harvest Moon.

"What is this place?" I whispered in wonder.

"We watch and document." Deneir said in clipped tones "We learn, so that we may teach." Oghma rolled his eyes.

"Deneir, you are in danger of becoming an insufferable bore. Please take young Sun down to the Measuring Room - perhaps you will benefit from seeing the joy of learning for yourself once again."

My eyes had fallen upon a large tome, resting on a dais to one side of the room. _Honour of the Steel Fang - A Treatise on Battle_. I recognised the work, written by a priest of Tempus.

"Do you know this book?" Oghma probed.

"I have read it." I replied, "The followers of Tempus have much to say of honour in battle, but I have seen honourable men slaughter one another in war. The study of theoretical warfare does not always consider that one may face someone across a battlefield who holds his ideals as dear as you do your own."

From the corner of my eye, I noticed that my words had caused Deneir to pause in gathering up his quills, a strange expression on his face. Then he turned to Sun, taking her hand. She glanced sadly at the window where her father stood, before disappearing down the stairs with the scribe.

"Interesting." Oghma mused "You anticipate complications - perhaps the reason why you have succeeded thus far. But you are a mage; how do you see the role of magic in battle?"

Thinking for a moment, I tried to answer his broad question as clearly and succinctly as I was able, discussing the difference between the Netheril and the Illefarn, quoting a variety of authors as references. I also tried to illustrate how arcane and divine magic were complementary, rather than opposites. He nodded as I spoke, and I felt a little foolish - surely he already knew everything I was saying.

"Ah, a true scholar!" he beamed at me delightedly, when I had concluded my impromptu dissertation.

Oghma indicated the seat Sun had vacated.

"Please sit down. If you would spare me a moment of your time, I have some questions for you."

--

"...and so, with the information at your disposal, would you choose the mountain pass or the bridge?" Oghma asked eagerly.

"Neither." I replied tiredly. "At that time of year, the bridge would be flooded and the mountain pass too treacherous. I would wait for the supply boat at the next town and persuade the helmsman to provide passage along the river. Though normally slower, it is clearly the optimal solution in this case."

It was difficult to judge the passage of time in this strange hall, but my throat was parched from talking. Oghma's questions had proved to be an exhaustive interrogation. He had started fairly innocuously, asking about my personal history and my interests, before moving on to questions designed to test my knowledge and my skill at strategy. Finally, he broached the topic of the Wall.

"You have chosen to play a very dangerous game, my young mortal."

I looked into his eyes, feeling the centuries in knowledge amassed behind them.

"I cannot do this alone. Will you aid me?" He smiled at me.

"My dear, nothing would please me more."

I experienced a flood of relief at receiving my first unreserved pledge of support. It was quickly stemmed by my inherently suspicious nature.

"Thank you, my lord. But I would ask that you tell me your interest in destroying the Wall of the Faithless."

He stared at me, his expression betraying nothing of what he was thinking. Then he stood up from his chair, and walked around the table with a graceful, unhurried gait. He came to stand behind me.

"I have no interest in the Wall. The only true power is knowledge. I do not deal in fear - but neither would I learn anything new by opposing those who do." He was quiet for a moment, as though his thoughts had taken him elsewhere. Then he continued:

"But you, my dear... you hold great interest for me. I have not seen another mortal such as yourself, and I am eager to watch as you progress."

His words reminded me of the "spy glass" I had seen earlier. As I was about to ask him about it, an odd feeling of unease came over me. This was not the right time; perhaps later.

Interpreting my silence as trepidation, Oghma asked:

"You have misgivings? That is understandable." He was certainly correct in that regard. My experiences thus far had not been encouraging.

"You have control over what I see, hear and touch in this place. You decide on the _clothing_ I wear. Gond struck me without moving an inch - and he could just as easily have killed me, with a mere thought. I have no power here."

I heard Oghma laughing quietly behind me. I simply closed my eyes and tried to ignore him; I was in no mood to be mocked.

"My dear girl, why do you think you are feared by the gods? We both know it is not because of your sword arm." I smiled weakly at his jest.

"Your arcane talents are formidable - perhaps by now even unparalleled on the Prime - but as you correctly surmise, this is unlikely to impress my colleagues."

Oghma placed his hands on my shoulders.

"Look at the board." Obediently, I looked down at the chess pieces on their black and white squares. "Which piece is the most valuable?"

"The queen."

"Why?"

"It is the piece with the greatest maneuverability."

Oghma leaned closer, speaking quietly into my ear.

"Your mind is a powerful tool. You have used it well in the practice of the arcane arts, but consider that you may apply it in other ways. When battle comes, the question will not be what the White Queen can do, but rather how well she has positioned herself."


	11. Layers of Fear

**Author's note: The events in this chapter occur in parallel with those described in the previous two chapters, and are narrated by a different character.**

_Tamzil_

The black-robed woman stood straight-backed, staring defiantly back at her accusers. Her hood had been drawn back, and her deep red hair twisted in the nape of her neck, fully exposing her face. Her features betrayed no emotion at all. The charge against her was read aloud by a young male acolyte, his voice a droning monotone. At her shoulder, High Priest Argent listened wordlessly, facing the small audience.

A half-circle of nine men and women, clad in the same black robes, stood at the fore. Behind them, I stood among the larger number of grey-clad acolytes, forming the steely sky to their black horizon. All of us hooded, all of our faces cast into shadow by the black candles, bathing the small temple in a bluish light.

"...and in your failure to obey the command of the high clergy, you have defied your Master. You have betrayed your order. Your faithlessness has defiled you, and in doing so you have defiled your brothers and sisters."

I clasped my hands together under the flowing sleeves of my robe, my heart thrumming in anticipation. I leaned forward eagerly, stretching up on my toes.

Fear. It was unmistakable. Even in the half-light, Lyanne's pupils were visibly wide, her emerald irises reduced to thin rims. Beads of sweat glistened on the bridge of her nose. A deathly hush hung over the assembly, as we waited for Argent to speak.

"The matter is thus concluded. The penalty is death." His gaze drifted over the priests and priestesses as he spoke, and then to the acolytes behind them. His eyes lingered momentarily upon me, sending a tingling thrill racing through my body.

"No!" Lyanne screamed, her facade crumbling. She lunged forward in a mindless, desperate bid for escape, but was struck heavily by a priests wielding a Blackwood staff. She collapsed in a sobbing, whimpering heap on the stone floor. Disappointed, I sank back on my heels. She had broken so easily.

Her death would be slow, but it held no more interest for me. Once the quarry offers no more resistance, the killing becomes simply mechanical.

_"And I do bore easily." _I thought to myself with an inward sigh. No matter; the end result was the same. At midnight in three days, a new priestess would be anointed. Allowing myself a small smile deep within my cowl, I lingered upon the memory of Argent's last visit to my chambers. I was already enjoying some of the privileges normally reserved for full priestesses.

Joining the number of my fellows already drifting towards the stairs, I quickened my step. Lyanne's screams echoed behind us.

--

The briny air gusted in from the sea, lending my lips a salty tang as I waited at the Neverwinter Docks. I hardly relished the idea of another meeting with the simpering, whiny Lathanderite, but it was a small price to pay for my ambitions. Groups of sailors drifted by, laughing and talking loudly in their drink-addled state. Morons. I knew they would never see me; reflexively, I gripped the handle of my blade.

No, it was not worth my time. I hated being here, no need to protract the visit.

The saline wind, the splashing waves against sodden wood, the stench of fish and ale and unwashed men...Unbidden, the memory flooded back.

_The girl child I once was, born amidst this filth, perhaps even on this very spot. I had no father, and I fled from the whore who bore me as soon as I was old enough to escape her blows. _

_I recalled living like vermin among the discarded crates, with a small band of urchins. We hid from the Watch, who beat us and chased us from the streets. We hid from the sailors, who accused us of stealing from their cabins - which, of course, we did. And we hid from our parents, in fear that they would finally succeed in ending our miserable lives._

_So many times, I had hidden in these shadows. So many useless tears, shed in fear.  
_

_Gods, how pathetic. If I saw such a spineless waif now, I would cut her down myself._

_Things changed as we grew older. We sought out the Watch, to bribe them with what little we had, or to rob them if we did not have enough. We sought out the sailors when our bodies had filled out enough to earn us coin. And some of us sought out our parents, finally succeeding in ending _their_ miserable lives..._

"Has he spoken?" The urgent whisper pulled me back from my waking nightmare. Always that hysterical edge to her voice, grating on my nerves like a knife against bone. Oh, I would enjoy cutting out her tongue right now, but she may yet be useful. It was best for her to believe she was still in control; I would dispose of her soon enough.

"No." I forced myself to answer patiently. "I told you: I shall inform you when he does."

Grudgingly, I had to acknowledge that it had been the Lathanderite cleric's idea to capture the blond dreamer-walker. She had actually sought me out, having learned of my... coercive talents from a former client. She had ranted about some witch, a wall and the end of the world; she claimed that this man had "information" she needed.

She was clearly as mad as a sewer rat. She had been seconds from death when she let slip that the "witch" of whom she spoke was, in fact, the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep. And I was nothing, if not an opportunist.

"I know you have my amulet. I want it back." the woman hissed, her voice shaking.

The fool. I had stolen it almost a tenday ago, though I had waited until last night to plant it on Lyanne.

"I have no idea what you mean. Is there anything else?" I asked in a bored voice. The Lathanderite swallowed audibly, her breathing rapid and shallow. Her palpable fear was rather delicious. Of course, she knew nothing of my religious activities, yet she must have sensed that I was no regular mercenary.

"No...no, not now. But you must make him talk soon. I grow impatient." I almost laughed at her attempt to sound stern.

I had my own methods. The deranged cleric wanted me to force the whereabouts of the mage from the dream-walker. I had seen the fear in his eyes when I spoke the mage's name - fear that harm had befallen her. I knew that breaking him would not only be exceedingly difficult, but more than likely unnecessary. I did not know whether she _loved_ him, but that did not matter. She almost certainly had some sort of sentimental attachment to him, in the face of such devotion. If she was really as talented as she was said to be, she would find him. I did not need to torture him for information; he was simply honey in my trap. I tortured him because it amused me.

What would I do with the lady mage when I had her? Holding her for ransom would not be wise. She would make a lovely gift for Argent - simultaneously strengthening my position in the church and alleviating me of the responsibility of her custody.

The Lathanderite was still hesitating between turning to leave and making further demands. My patience at its end, I casually withdrew my knife, caressing the blade.

"Best be on your way, then. It isn't safe here at night." Her eyes widened in horror. She whirled around and darted away.

Fear. I had mastered it within myself, and now I wielded it as a weapon.

Fear was my ally, my sustenance. My gift to my Lord. The Lord of Fear. Bane.


	12. The Parting Gift

_The Knight Captain_

"Sun, I'm sorry."

The cold tiles dug into my knees as I kneeled beside the little girl. She stood facing one of the arched windows in the Hall of Knowledge, refusing to look at me. Beyond the glass, a sprawling city lay shrouded in early morning mist. Neverwinter.

The sight of it stirred a barrage of conflicting emotion within me. When last my feet had touched its paved streets, the world had been so different. No, perhaps the world had not changed much – but I certainly had. I had left the city surrounded by friends, and now I would return alone. I wondered how Lord Nasher had reacted to the news that I had left Crossroad Keep.

I had known I would have to face the city eventually, but since returning from Rashemen, I had corresponded with Lord Nasher via messengers only, claiming that circumstances detained me at the Keep. He had assured me that he understood the need of a commander's presence after such a trying time, and expressed his regret that his failing health prevented him from making the journey himself.

In my official account of what had transpired after defeating the King of Shadows, I had taken considerable creative licence. I informed Lord Nasher that I had been abducted and held against my will by a rogue faction of Thayan wizards. I had eventually managed to dispose of my captors with the aid of two fellow "prisoners" - explaining my new companions, Gann and Safiya.

I had purposefully remained vague on the particulars of my supposed captivity; I also claimed that I could only speculate on the precise motives of my abductors. I ascribed my ignorance and poor recollection to the "mind-altering magic" they had employed against me in my weakened state. The fewer details I provided, the less likely it was that my falsehood would be exposed. I was not proud of the fact that I was a good liar.

Why the deception? I was all too aware that the truth could be a burden – and a grave danger. I was loathe to allow the truth to place more people at risk. And I would not allow it to be used as a weapon by my enemies, either. None but my closest companions had learned the truth of the Betrayer's Curse and my encounter with Kelemvor. I even regretted taking Sand, Khelgar and Neeshka into my confidence, but I hoped that by leaving them behind, I had spared them from being drawn into the maelstrom with me. My hands were already stained with the blood of people for whom I cared – and loved.

These thoughts strengthened my resolve as I looked Sun. Even though she would not face me, I saw unshed tears shining in her eyes. She did not want me to see her cry. Her strength of will was astonishing, in one so young.

"You are safe here, Sun." I said. "What would I do if anything bad happened to you? I must go, and I cannot take you with me if I think you might be harmed." I gently tucked a wisp of blond hair behind her ear.

Finally looking at me, her amber-gold eyes spilled their treacherous tears. Her thin arms slid around my neck and she choked through her sobs:

"But who will keep you safe? I couldn't save Mama, but maybe I can help you."

I felt something stir in my heart, and hugged her tightly.

"I will keep her safe, Sun." I had not noticed Milil leaning against the opposite wall. He had been so withdrawn since our arrival here, hardly speaking to anyone. His words were a shock to me.

"What?!" I exclaimed, not even attempting to hide my incredulity. I rose to my feet, releasing Sun from my embrace. I noticed then that Milil looked different. He was clad in sturdy traveling clothes, and his hair was tied back. He gave me a thin smile. The glazed, vacant stare had left his eyes and had been replaced by a steely determination.

"I apologise for thrusting him upon you without warning, my dear." Oghma appeared at the top of the stairs, followed closely by Deneir. "But I believe he may be of more use to you than to me."

Oghma smiled warmly at Sun as he walked towards us. Her lower lip was still trembling. Oghma bent towards her, placing his hands on his knees, and whispered something in her ear. She gave him a watery smile as he gently brushed a tear from her cheek with his index finger.

"Can you do that for me, my dear? It's in the smallest chest, below the tapestry." She nodded and trotted towards the stairs.

Confused, I looked from Oghma to Milil. When Sun had gone, the older man spoke:

"It seems Milil has managed to strip himself of a great deal of his Power. Since the... unfortunate incident at Harvest Moon, I have been required to assume his divine portfolio in addition to my own." Seeing the surprise in my expression, he added dismissively: "It is no hardship, and his followers are none the wiser."

The devastation Vayelle's death had caused Milil was more profound than I had realised. He stared fixedly at the ground, clenching his jaw, and a blush crept over his cheeks as Oghma continued:

"Of course, he still has his knowledge of the gods - which will certainly be of value, considering your situation – and his skill as a bard is obviously unmatched, though he will be limited to the use of instruments. Also, he may not be a weapons master, but he has some skill with a blade – considerably more than you do, if you'll forgive my boldness."

I felt abruptly uncomfortable; Oghma's speech had reminded me a little of a merchant trying to sell a trinket of dubious quality. A glance at Milil's expression revealed the humiliation he felt.

"Thank you." I said quickly, directing my reply at Milil. "I am honoured that you would agree to accompany me, my lord. I realise that you have a personal interest in the destruction of the Wall." Milil's eyes blazed, but he merely inclined his head and said nothing.

"We are in agreement, then: when you leave us, Milil is to go with you." Oghma said, seeming pleased. With a sidelong glance at Deneir, who was fussing at one of the windows , he added dryly:

"And I shall have to learn to use my left Hand." Deneir appeared not to hear.

Oghma came to stand beside me at the window, placing a companionable hand on my elbow as he surveyed the view.

"Ah, the Jewel of the North. I daresay you will find that much has changed, though on the surface it looks the same." Something in his voice hinted that his words were heavy with meaning.

I had spent hours poring over tomes and discussing strategy with Oghma. His advice had been to continue with my original plan, and meet with the followers of Tyr in Neverwinter. Numerous other gods were served in the city as well; perhaps I could determine which of them might be sympathetic to my cause. Oghma suggested that his support should remain known only to us, since "a shrewd player never shows her hand." He was certainly fond of his parlor games; I had expected this directive.

Looking again at the bird's eye view of the city below us, with the sun now fully risen, it struck me that the mist had not abated. In fact, a dense gray fog was almost completely obscuring the view of the Merchant District. Before I could voice my puzzlement, Sun had reappeared, carrying a small bundle. She looked a great deal happier now.

"Thank you, Sun." Oghma ruffled her hair and took the bundle from her. With a flourish, he shook the fabric out, revealing that the bundle was, in fact, a cloak. And a rather unusual one, at that. I stared in fascination. Oghma stepped behind me and pinned the cloak to my shoulders. Sun gaped at me, and I saw a strange expression flit across Milil's features.

"Even better than I had hoped." Oghma said, his dark eyes shining.

I fingered the ethereal, silvery folds of fabric, marveling at the silky texture. I felt... different. Taller, more graceful, and somehow more confident in my abilities. The change was subtle, but undeniable.

"Please accept this token, my dear – from Sun and I." Oghma winked at Sun. "It is but a modest thing, merely illuminating the natural charm you already possess. You may find that those with whom you interact are more malleable to your will."

Our farewell was brief. A placated Sun was satisfied to let me go, with a promise that I would return to see her. I was surprised to find that I was the one who experienced a surge of emotion at being parted from her, but on the surface my elven stoicism served me well. Locking away such feelings was a well-practiced reflex.

We descended the pale stairs together, and walked in silence down the corridor, flanked by the incongruously reflective black walls. At the imposing double doors, Oghma raised a glowing hand. The doors parted.

Before us lay a paved road, and in the distance, the city walls of Neverwinter. Deneir handed me a bag, containing the remainder of my possessions, and Oghma took my free hand in both of his:

"Open your mind, Crusader. Your fate awaits."

Milil stepped through the door, and I followed. The cobbled road was uneven underfoot and the air felt cool and damp. I turned to face the door through which I had come, but behind us only the road snaked away into the distance.


	13. Stolen Revenge

We did not have far to walk before we would reach the city gates, but neither of us felt the need to hurry. Milil had an easy, flowing gait, but he matched his pace to my shorter stride, so that we walked comfortably side by side. I could see the docks in the distance, and several ships moored in the harbour, their sails swaying gently in the breeze. A black cloud still hung over the far side of the city. _Strange_, I thought. Milil noticed my frown.

"Don't trouble yourself over it now. We are bound to find out what it is, sooner or later." Perhaps if one has lived as long as a god, almost everything seems transient and trivial. Though I was an elf, I was still a young elf, and had not yet achieved that level of pragmatism. I looked at the man walking so casually at my side, intrigued by his unique situation.

"What should I call you?" I asked him. He looked at me with the half-smile I was beginning to recognise as his bemusement at my naivete. I found it as irritating as it was appealing.

"What do you wish to call me?" He asked innocently. There were, in fact, a number of things I wished to call him at that moment, but I refrained.

"I cannot very well call you "Milil" in the company of others, can I?" I asked, a sarcastic edge to my voice.

"Why not?" he asked serenely, his violet eyes challenging me.

"Well, it would be construed as blasphemy, wouldn't it? And obviously, we cannot reveal that you really are a god?" My voice conveyed my exasperation.

"A _former_ god." he corrected. "My followers are not easily offended, and I doubt many others would care. Most would simply assume that I am a follower of Milil. Should a problematic situation arise, however, you can refer to me as Evan of Milil, if you wish."

"Who is Evan?" I asked immediately. He sighed, as though he knew I would ask, but had hoped I might not.

"Evan... once lived as a mortal. He was one of my priests, devoted and talented. I chose him as my Avatar." Milil avoided looking directly at me as he spoke. His words gave me an unpleasant feeling.

"What became of him?" I asked coldly.

"He became part of me, as I became part of him." He said simply.

"You possessed him." I said, my voice thick with reproach "You took his body as you own, because he was fair to look upon, and appealed to the lovers you pursued. Now there is nothing left of the man he once was." I felt revolted.

Milil was not angered by my accusation. He waited patiently for me to say my piece, before responding quietly:

"Not all mortals see the world as you do, Crusader. Evan surrendered his mortality freely. He had given up all ties to his family years before, in pursuit of his faith. I did not destroy him. I accepted his sacrifice, and in doing so he still lives today. I am both Evan and Milil, and have been for centuries."

We were standing beside the road now, facing the ocean. I could not look at him.

"I cannot accept that." I said, bitterly.

"I know." he sighed.

He sat down on the ground next to me, stretching his legs out before him, and stared down at the glistening waves in the distance. After some time, he reached up and took my hand. Part of my mind screamed at me to pull away, yet inexplicably, I did not.

"Can you accept that even a god may grow, and change?" I looked down at his face, and read the almost pleading look in his eyes. "I, too, have regrets. Though much of the Lore about me is grossly exaggerated, there is truth in it, also. Though my past actions were not evil, I am not proud of them, and they do not define who I am anymore. I abandoned many of my former... pursuits, after meeting Vayelle. "

I sat down beside him, though I kept my eyes fixed stiffly ahead. Milil swallowed, and then continued:

"I am what I am, just as you are what you are. And although both of us must bear the consequences of our choices, perhaps there are still some choices yet to be made." I looked at him, and saw that hope momentarily eclipsed the ever-present pain behind his eyes. I sighed, and linked my arm through his.

"Whatever you are now – god, mortal, or something between - you have spoken to me as an equal, without condescension or judgment. That is something I can accept." I smiled tentatively.

Milil slung an arm around my shoulders in a brief half-hug, and then reached around to his pack and retrieved a small wooden box. It looked like a miniature zither. Clasping it in one hand, he plucked at the strings.

The sound from the little instrument had a reedy quality, and the music was frivolous and cheerful. I laughed at the silliness of it, and Milil laughed in return. His voice sounded almost normal. For the first time, I could see how much his features resembled Sun's. Thinking of the little girl, I felt a strange pang of longing.

Milil's eyes fell upon the amulet around my neck. He looked at it curiously, and reached out and touched it with a single finger.

"Who gave this to you?" He asked, with a probing gaze.

"A friend. His name is Gannayev," I said sadly, thinking of the man who had disappeared before I could say goodbye. I did not blame him for leaving, but he had been the only one of my companions I might have trusted with my plans. I hoped that Gann had found happiness, wherever he was. I reached up and held the amulet in my palm, closing my eyes.

Without warning, a cry of torment rang in my head, seeming to echo from my very soul. My eyes flew open in shock, and I gripped Milil's arm. Looking around frantically, with my heart pounding in my ears, I saw only Milil, looking at me with a mixture of alarm and concern.

"Something is wrong." I said, trying to steady my breathing.

"That much I can see!" Milil said emphatically "Are you in danger?"

"No." I said, shaking my head, trying to concentrate. "But I think Gann might be." I jumped to my feet, and started pacing up and down. I gripped the amulet again, willing myself to see something, anything. Nothing happened. I groaned in frustration.

"What happened?" Milil gripped my shoulders, forcing me to stop and looking at my face with a searching gaze.

"I... I am not sure. I heard screaming. It sounded like his voice, but there is something more. Memories, thoughts... I don't know from where, they do not seem to be my own. I fear he may be hurt, or worse." I clenched my fists, fighting down my rising panic.

"Then we shall find him." Milil said, encouragingly.

The sound of shuffling steps approaching along the road drew our attention. A hunched figure, wearing a ragged cloak, hobbled painfully over the cobblestones towards us. Alerted, I threw up my defensive shields. Milil drew a short dagger from his waistband, but held the blade against his arm, obscuring it from view.

It was very unlikely that travelers would be accosted this close to the city gates, and besides, it would have to be a very powerful adversary to pose a credible threat to us. Nonetheless, we were both aware of the dangers of being caught off-guard.

As the figure drew near, I could see that it was a woman, and younger than her gait suggested, though she leaned heavily upon a cane. Her complexion had a sickly, anaemic pallor, and her red-rimmed eyes stared feverishly. A diseased beggar; I instinctively recoiled at the sight of her.

"Please, m'lady, sir," she croaked at us "Might you spare me a coin, or some food?"

My suspicion was instantly piqued by the forlorn woman. Neverwinter was a city with numerous temples, dedicated to an assortment of benevolent gods. One could not cross a street without bumping into a cleric or a paladin. It was very odd that this woman had not been aided by the virtuous healers within the city, and was now seeking charity outside its walls. I considered the possibility of a plague, looking again at the dark cloud over the city. This was improbable, since we would have seen throngs of people, both the ill and the healthy, fleeing the city whilst the gates remained open. Nonetheless, I asked:

"What do you know of that cloud over the city?" She looked at me oddly, before replying:

"The smoke? That's from the fire in the cemetery, of course. The blaze has resulted in the merchant quarter being sealed off for almost a tenday now." Whilst this was disturbing news, I also noticed that the woman's voice sounded different. Her surprise at my question had caused her to drop the affected, pleading tone. Her pronunciation attested to an educated background , as though poverty was relatively new to her.

"Why has the fire not been doused?" I asked. "If magic is involved, I am certain that the Cloaktower mages should be capable of dealing with the problem."

The woman chuckled derisively, giving rise to a hacking cough. When she recovered enough to speak, she said:

"You are not new to the city, but it seems you have been away for some time." Her words were ominous, and in addition to my worry about Gann, I felt certain that I would imminently be drawn into whatever ill had befallen the city. I was anxious to learn more about the situation, and the impact that it would have on my plans.

I regarded the woman thoughtfully. I may have been away from the city for some time, but of one thing I remained certain: if this woman had been forced to leave the city without healing, it meant that no-one had been able to cure her disease. Or, that no-one had been willing.

I held out a small coin pouch towards her, watching her closely. As she reached for it, her cloak slipped from her arm, exposing her skin. Her tattoos were only visible for an instant, but they confirmed what I already knew. What I did not know, was how this priestess of Talona had fallen victim to her own work.

I was not the only one to notice. Milil's face was drained of all colour. His violet eyes had turned almost black as he stared at her with pure hatred.

"She is gone, is she not, Witch?" He seethed, his voice grating worse than ever. The woman dropped her cane, and stumbled backward at the sound of his voice. He gave a harsh laugh.

"The Hag has finally fallen upon her own poisoned dagger, and left her minions to rot without her protection. I wonder who gave her the push." The woman lifted her arms defensively. Milil turned away, breathing heavily. I left the unfortunate woman to stagger away in terror.

I walked to Milil's side, looking at him questioningly. His eyes were violet again, and swimming with tears.

"It seems I cannot take my revenge for Vayelle's death. Talona is dead."


	14. Assassin's Watch

**Author's note: Dear friends, I must apologise for my prolonged absence. As sometimes happens, life got in the way of my best intentions, and I was not able to write for a while. The Crusader's story is far from over, though - here is the next installment, I hope you enjoy it. **

High noon, and the Docks District was throbbing with life. The din of vendors calling out from their stalls, competing for attention, and of shrieking children playing boisterous games of tag, was rounded off by the wailing of stray cats, begging for fish. The glare of the sunlight reflecting on the ocean seemed unusually bright, and the noise cut right into my aching temples.

Arcane disguises were forbidden on the streets of Neverwinter; employing such would immediately attract the attention of the Cloaktower and the Watch. I did not know how many potential enemies I had in the city, but I believed that those whom I had reason to fear, would already know I was here. So I merely kept my face hidden in the recess of my hood, hoping at best to avoid public attention, and the delays it would entail.

The initial shock of hearing Gann's voice in my head had given way to a vague, yet persistent dread. I felt sick. My legs were weak, and my stomach clenched into knots. Though it had lasted for less than a heartbeat, I could still hear the pained cry.

I doubted that Milil believed the literal truth of my vision; perhaps he thought that I was simply worried about a missing friend, and that talk of the amulet had reminded me of him.

Were I in his place, I would have thought the same. I could not say with certainty that the experience had not, in fact, been born of emotional turmoil - from mixed feelings of guilt and loneliness, and the series of surreal experiences that constituted my life of late. The manifestations of such an affected state could be alarming. I was aware that the ability to suppress and conceal one's emotions, did not mean that one was impervious to them.

These misgivings aside, I could not rest until I knew what had become of Gann.

The news of Talona's demise – startling as it was – had only temporarily distracted me. In retrospect, I considered that I should not have been surprised, knowing what I did of divine politics. Milil had been shaken by the news, but now he seemed more concerned about me. His brow was furrowed as he gave me yet another sidelong glance.

"Should we pay your uncle a visit first?" He asked lightly.

We were making our way towards the Dolphin bridge, and the temple of Oghma. The god of knowledge would certainly be able to locate my friend the dreamwalker effortlessly, but I did not yet know how we would gain access to that information, without revealing our identities.

"You are more likely to be recognised if you remain outside." Milil pressed on. "I'll continue on to the temple alone, and inquire about your friend."

The _Sunken Flagon _came into view, down the street to our right. I had not seen Duncan since before the war; Daeghun had sent him word that I lived, after I had returned to Crossroad Keep. I had called the run-down inn home for some time, but I blanched at the thought of waiting there passively, whilst Gann might be in danger. Nonetheless, I relented.

"All right." I sighed. "I'll wait for you at the _Flagon_."

Before he could reply, I slipped away into the crowd. I knew he had intended to accompany me to the inn, but I needed to go alone. I had my own plans and methods.

The terrace looked exactly the same as I remembered it, except that the door and shutters were closed. I could still see the scorch marks up on the facade, bearing mute testimony to my first meeting with the impetuous sorceress, Qara. I knew that the feelings of regret I felt when thinking of her were not rational, but they surfaced nonetheless.

We had been polar opposites, she and I. I could not recall a single instance when we had agreed upon anything. Yet with time, we had reached a semblance of mutual respect and understanding, even if her distaste for my studious methods had not lessened.

I had not mentioned her betrayal, nor that of Bishop, in my official account of the Battle of Shadows. I had seen no reason to heap scorn upon them in death; they had, after all, aided me with their respective talents on many occasions before.

I had been forced to kill them both – I had no other choice at the time, and would do the same again under those circumstances. But they had ultimately died in a conflict that should not have involved them at all. A conflict into which I had drawn them – it was for _this_ reason that their deaths weighed upon my conscience.

I was not naïve; I was not surprised that their tenuous loyalty had been swayed in the face of their own misguided beliefs, encouraged by the ancient demonic persuasion of the King of Shadows. I felt no malice towards them, though I knew that some of my other companions had not shared my sentiments – or my discretion.

Surfacing from my reverie, I pushed open the front door of the inn. I was surprised to find the front room all but deserted. A familiar figure sat on a barstool in the far corner, staring unseeingly into his tankard.

I walked over to him, shrugging off my hood.

"Hello, Duncan." I said, when he looked up.

The tankard crashed to the floor.

"Is it you, Lass?" he slurred, his face pale, apart from the rubor across the bridge of his nose. He swayed dangerously. Alarmed, I reached out a hand to steady him. He looked as though he had aged ten years since last I had seen him.

"He thinks you are his niece." A woman's voice came from behind the bar; husky, but not unpleasant. "Hardly a day goes by that he does not accost an elven woman, demanding to know where she's been."

The woman was human – plump, but pretty, with her brown skin and dark hair in intricate braids. She had a pleasant, friendly face. She gestured apologetically at Duncan:

"I'm sorry if he frightened you." He had frightened me, but not in the manner that she meant. His eyes had closed, lost in his drunken stupor. I understood now why the tavern was so quiet at midday – it seemed the proprietor had lost interest in his surroundings.

Following my gaze, the woman said:

"Do you remember the place differently? It has been closed for a long time, but I hope to receive customers again soon. I'm Zea, by the way. Would you like something to drink?"

It was clear that Zea was looking after the business alone – and probably Duncan, as well. The poor woman seemed to have shouldered an unenviable burden, I thought guiltily.

"Yes, I remember when things were different – the outside is the same, but the inside is much changed." I looked at Duncan sadly, and the ambiguity of my words was not lost on Zea. She looked at me quizzically. I hesitated, before adding:

"And I am his niece."

Her hands stilled around the glass she had been polishing.

"I see." Her voice carried a wintry edge.

"I have been away for more than two years, but it was not through my own choosing. I did not know that he was unwell." I tried not to sound defensive.

Zea stared at me, frowning. Then she shrugged.

"Who am I to judge? Life's path is not a straight one, and cannot be seen far ahead." She added with a trace of bitterness:

"My own kin have not received word from me for several moons, though I doubt this has distressed them much."

Duncan had clearly dozed off, his head lolling to one side. Zea looked at him tenderly, before saying quietly:

"Ah well, it is not for one's kin that the heart harbours the deepest love." Her words drew my attention back to the sickening ache in the pit of my stomach. I walked quickly around the bar, and implored Zea in a low, urgent voice:

"Zea, I shall return soon, but now I must go. Time does not allow me to explain now, but I ask that you try to understand. Please do not tell anyone that you have seen me here, save for a fair-haired man named Evan, who will no doubt come searching for me soon. Please may I use the service entrance through the kitchen? I'm afraid I may have been watched, and I would like to leave unobserved."

Again, I realised my effort at subterfuge was likely in vain, but I was not about to make it easier for anyone to follow me.

_Tamzil_

I leaned back in a comfortable crouch, melting into the shadows cast by the eaves overhead. None but the keenest eye would notice me perched on the wide window gable of the harbourmaster's house.

I had scaled the wall a few feet away from a watchman on patrol. I had been within easy striking distance of him for almost an hour now. I had a generous supply of fellroot darts, which would stop the heart within seconds of the poison reaching the blood. No-one would wonder at a fat, middle aged watchman dropping from a weakened heart whilst on patrol.

Tempting as this was, I could not afford any distractions today. I had learned of the illustrious Captain's arrival within minutes of her passage through the city gates. A scattering of breadcrumbs attracted street urchins more readily than pigeons in Neverwinter, bringing with them an assortment of valuable information.

Following a target is the sign of a second-rate mercenary. A true assassin anticipates a mark's movements; knowing what he would do and where he would go even before _he_ did. A little research and subtle inquiry was all I had needed to understand the thinking of my latest project.

She was an elven mage, and thus almost certainly aloof and arrogant – she would prefer solving her own problems to seeking the council of others. She had lost companions before, one of whom was rumoured to have been her lover – she would be reluctant to draw others into her troubles now. She would be traveling alone.

For all her intellectual posturing, she had one obvious and fatal weakeness - forming emotional attachments to those around her. Years of study had not saved her from becoming a sentimental fool. Despite the risk, she would not be able to resist paying the drunkard at the _Flagon_ a visit.

She was described as quiet and composed, and endured public attention with reluctance. She probably cared little for the prestige of her title. She would not consider her recent abandoning of Crossroad Keep to be a shirking of her duties – she was simply acting out of a greater necessity, though I did not yet know what that was. What I did know, was that her actions had not earned her any friends in the upper ranks of Neverwinter. She would be aware of this, and be discreet in her movements.

This would be far neater and simpler than waiting for her to seek out her minion, whom I still detained. Besides, I was not certain how much longer he would last. His sullen, obstinate demeanour had begun to annoy me. He was also sickening. If all went well today, I may just dispose of him. I would devise something creative for his final moments - perhaps I would get some enjoyment out of him after all. I am ever the optimist.

I refocused my full attention on the task at hand. This was almost too easy. She would go to the inn, and later emerge through the back door - of which I had an unobscured view from across the street . All I had to do, was wait.


	15. The Blood of My Enemy

_Tamzil_

This was _not_ how I had planned to spend my afternoon.

_After delivering the Knight Captain to Argent, I had intended to entertain him in his chambers for a few hours – since being elevated to full priestess, I no longer had to be satisfied with stolen moments only._

_Later, I would have informed the hapless Lathanderite that I had captured her "witch", and collected the payment owed to me – one way or another. She may have given it willingly, or she may have demanded to see the woman for herself first. Either way, the cleric would have died – the success of my entrepreneurial ventures rested upon ensuring that no-one remained to speak of my involvement._

_After disposing of her, I would have spent a final evening with my pet dreamwalker. After all, there would have been no need for him to continue imposing upon my hospitality._

As it happened, however, I found myself bounding breathlessly from one rooftop to the next, fleeing for my life.

It had all gone wrong from the moment the arcane celebrity had stepped out of the back door of the inn, into the small rear courtyard. Almost immediately, a portal had split the air, and a gang of robe-clad youths had poured from it, with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle. I had watched with almost amused incredulity, as the blithering incompetent leading them had tried to use _magic_ against her.

Lightning had sprung from her hands before the fool had time to complete his incantation, and incinerated all but two of the mob. The fat barmaid then appeared at the door, alerted by the noise, and distracted the mage with her shrieking. One of the two remaining youths had lunged at her with a dagger – I think he injured her, but I could not be certain. By that stage, I had problems of my own.

Unfortunately, I, too, had been distracted. Watching the spectacle unfolding in the courtyard, biding my time, I had failed to notice the emergence of _another _figure. A moment before, when my eyes had swept across the gabled building to my left, the open attic window had stared back vacantly. By the time my gaze shifted back, a man had appeared, seeming to have taken form from the shadows.

Our eyes met as I drew in my breath.

A glint of metal. I was quick, but not quick enough.

Searing heat shot through my shoulder. Without hesitating for an instant, I leapt onto the roof of the harbourmaster's house. A second arrow thudded into the wall, which had been at my back a moment before.

Gasping from pain and shock, I hauled myself over the cornice, and out of the archer's line of sight. Professional experience told me that I had no time to spare – if I waited, I was dead. Wincing, I snapped the shaft of the arrow that pierced my flesh and tried to stem the flow of blood with my free hand. Summoning all my strength, I jumped to the next rooftop.

I paused a moment, gulping down a healing potion, and then another. Blood continued to seep from the wound in my shoulder, rapidly soaking through my shirt. My breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps. My healing magic was weak; I needed someone with a greater interest in tending to wounds, as opposed to inflicting them. The house of the Morninglord was not far away.

I cursed under my breath. As it turned out, the Lathanderite had not outlived her usefulness just yet.

--

_The Knight Captain_

The stench of charred bodies, and the bluish smoke that trailed from them, hung heavily in the air. The portal through which the attackers had come, closed with a loud crack, swallowing the two remaining survivors. A dull, unnatural stillness seemed to descend upon my ears.

I was vaguely aware of a stinging pain at the side of my neck; I pressed my hand absently against it. I turned slowly towards the door, where Zea had remained standing.

For reasons I could not comprehend, I saw that she was still screaming. I noted this with a detached sense of acceptance, but I found it odd that the sound seemed so _slow_ to reach my ears. When it did, it sounded almost like the lowing of a cow. _How ridiculous_, I thought, suddenly filled with the urge to laugh.

I reached out my hand, wanting to calm her. Her face contorted in horror, and she shrank away. A spray of red spattered her apron, glaringly bold against the bleached white. I looked down at my hand, and saw the blood drip from my fingers. I felt it pulse from my neck in warm, wet gushes. I reeled backwards...

...and felt a strong, restraining arm slip around my waist. Something soft and sticky covered my neck; my soaked robes immediately felt cooler against my skin. As my strength failed, I was scooped off my feet. A measured, yet urgent voice commanded:

"Inside. Now."

--

I blinked against the darkness. I was lying on my back upon the bar counter of Duncan's tavern. The muted blur before my eyes drifted into focus, and resolved into the familiar, ageless face of an elven man. His steady gaze seemed bottomless, yet impenetrable.

"Daeghun." I whispered.

"Keep still." He instructed quietly. "You have lost a lot of blood."

Even lying down, I felt light-headed. My heart seemed to shudder in my chest, and my fingers were numb with cold.

Very carefully, he tilted my head forward and trickled a powerful healing potion into my mouth. The warmth of it seemed to course through my veins and concentrate in my neck.

Feeling a great deal better, I wanted to get down from the bar. I needed to investigate the attack I had barely survived. I had to resume my search for Gann. And I had much to discuss with my father – although, being familiar with the Farlong way, most of it would probably remain unsaid.

I strained to sit up, but for some unfathomable reason, I felt as though an orc were standing on my chest. Daeghun looked at me, the merest hint of a frown flitting across his features.

"I may be able to help." said a soft female voice from the door. A woman, clad in red and white robes, entered the room, followed closely by Zea. Her lilting accent intimated that Common was not her native language.

"This is Elanviere of Ilmater." said Zea "She has... helped me before. She is a good healer." She gave me an appraising look.

"Epinephron leaf compress." Elanviere nodded appreciatively at Daeghun, "Had you not controlled the bleeding early, she would not have lived."

She stepped closer, and held out her arms. Linking her thumbs, she cupped her hands, palms down. As she skimmed her hands over my head, they started to glow with golden light. She said no incantation; she simply closed her eyes in concentration. As the light passed over my neck, I felt a tight, stretching sensation as my flesh knitted together. The pain faded completely.

She smiled slightly, her eyes still closed, as her hands continued to drift along my body. With the pain in my neck gone, the heaviness upon my chest seemed to increase to a crushing weight. I groaned. She stopped moving, and opened her eyes. Her face looked drawn and serious. She dropped her hands to her sides. A faintly glowing sphere remained, ensconcing me from head to toe.

"She has been poisoned recently, yes?" She asked, looking at Zea. Zea merely shrugged, but Daeghun nodded. I gaped at him in surprised. How could he have known that?

"This wound, also, was poisoned. I have neutralised the toxin, and healed the injury." She paused.

"But she is not recovered." Daughun read the meaning in her words, and stated it plainly. His tone was unwavering as ever.

"I must take her to the sanctuary; she needs a more skilled healer than I." Elanviere continued, "Her heart is much weakened."

Daeghun stared at her, without answering, or acknowledging that he had heard her at all. His face betrayed nothing, but I noticed that his hands, usually perfectly steady, were shaking with a fine tremour.

"I shall return for her soon; I must make arrangements at the sanctuary before she is moved." The healer hurried out the door, with Zea trailing behind.

Daughun remained standing rigidly at my side. Wordlessly, he reached out and took one of my hands in both of his.


	16. Silent Heart

The rocky cavern was large – how large, I could not tell; it seemed to stretch away to all sides, the dim light failing to penetrate its furthest recesses. Every sound rebounded in haunting echoes.

A sunken stone bath held a glowing liquid, which was almost a mist, yet also oddly viscous . I lay partially submerged in the bath, buoyed up by the dense fluid. The light it emitted seemed almost alive, casting rippling ghost figures upon the ceiling above me. The intensity of it increased and receded in a vital, organic rhythm.

I felt pleasantly sedated. A calm, contented feeling filled me, despite the trauma of my most recent memories.

After Elanvier had left the _Sunken Flagon_, the crushing pain in my chest had returned. It worsened gradually. By the time a small contingent of healers had arrived with a covered wagon to collect me, it was unbearable, and their efforts to relieve it proved to be useless. Elanvier's shield around me forced my soul to remain in my protesting body, even as I wished for death.

I had to be moved to the sanctuary quickly, without creating a disturbance in the street outside. If any member of the Watch had felt the need to investigate, it would have resulted in a fatal delay. Daeghun's face was smooth as glass as he stifled my screams. The last thing I remembered, was my agony mirrored in his eyes, as he pressed his hand over my face.

Now the pain seemed distant, unreal - as did the anxiety I had felt earlier. My fear for Gann's safety, the violence of the ambush, the shock of seeing my father again... I recalled all of it, yet the only thing I felt, was an unshakable certainty that all was well.

"Feeling better, my dear?" a gentle voice enquired. A man had appeared beside the bath, his kindly face looking down at me. His receding brown hair gave the impression of a prominent forehead. He leaned awkwardly on a cane, favouring his left leg. Looking more closely, I noticed that he bore many scars; I suspected that his simple gray tunic concealed more. The shape of his right forearm testified to a badly mended break.

He took another step closer. The movement seemed to cause him pain. He did not look like a man of war; the evidence of so many injuries seemed out of place. I deduced that I was not the only patient at the sanctuary.

I smiled at him.

"Yes, I feel well. But I know something is wrong." I frowned. I reached a hand up to my neck. The rippling of the liquid in the bath caused the light to dance crazily overhead. I fingered the neatly healed scar of a wound that was less than six hours old. I felt nothing else.

"My heart is not beating." I observed.

"No." he answered, fixing me with an unwavering gaze. I should have been shocked, yet I simply felt... detached. He continued:

"The poisoning you have suffered, coupled with severe blood loss, starved your heart of blood. It can no longer beat normally on its own." As he spoke these words, I could hear the revulsion in his voice.

"Who are you? Are you a healer here?" I did not think that someone here simply for the ministrations of the clerics, would understand so much about my condition. Yet I felt no suspicion or doubt; simply curiosity.

Before he could answer, the sound of rapid, determined footsteps filled the cavern. The strange man turned towards the source.

Out of the gloom, the figure of Milil emerged. His ashen face was a stark mask.

"I cannot hear her heart. Is she dead?" His abrasive voice tore at the air.

"Milil." I called his name, my lulled mind filled with unfettered joy upon seeing his familiar face.

Hearing my voice seemed to strike him like a tangible force. He rushed forward. Taking my chin in his hand, his searching violet eyes bore into mine. The tension visibly drained from his body and he gave a short, trembling laugh. Wanting to reassure him, I traced my fingers along the back of his hand, still cupping my face. As his gaze drifted over me, his eyes widened.

Quickly, he snatched his hand away and took a step back. For the first time, I realized that my life-supporting, intoxicating bath did little to preserve my modesty. I wanted to laugh when I saw the blush creep over Milil's face, as he carefully avoided looking at me. Considering the countless naked women he had seen before, this was ridiculous. I wanted to laugh, but I didn't.

"Welcome, brother." the kindly man greeted Milil warmly, holding out his good hand. To my astonishment, Milil simply stared at him coldly, before retorting:

"I am not your brother, Ilmater."

The man looked at him sadly. Tears swam in his eyes.

"You have suffered so much, Milil. You loved your wife. But you have found meaning in your suffering, though you do not understand that yet."

Milil snorted derisively.

"There is no _meaning_ in suffering. Not mine, not yours, and not hers." he stabbed a finger in my direction as he said this.

"You say that suffering strengthens, but it does not. It only twists and corrupts." Milil's voice became softer, and rasped so much that it was almost painful to hear. He went on:

"You are not going to heal her, are you? Why do you keep her here, then? Do you want to watch her protracted suffering? You widely denounce cruelty, but you are perhaps the cruelest of all." He looked back at me, anger and pain twisting his face. Then he turned away, pressing his fist against his forehead.

Ilmater stared at him, pity shining in his eyes. Then he turned back to me:

"The beginning and end of my purpose is to ease suffering in the world. Sometimes, that is as simple as healing an injury, or comforting a child. But sometimes, suffering is the only path to empathy, and the only means of _true_ healing. Sometimes, it is the healer who benefits from the healing, more than the wounded. And sometimes, it must be the wounded who is the healer."

His words pressed heavily on my dulled mind; I could sense the meaning in them, but not discern it.

"Your path is fraught with suffering, Crusader; past, present and future. Whether or not it will have meaning, only you can decide."


	17. The Same Truth

Like the sun burning away the morning mist, the light drove the haze of sedation from my head. The glaring shaft shone directly down onto me. It was too bright to look upon directly; I could not determine its source.

I was still floating in the stone bath, but my quiet sanctuary had become the scene of a confrontation.

Milil had positioned himself between me and the white-robed figure of Elanvier. Every muscle in his body appeared tensed; he was crouched slightly, poised as though ready to spring. His defensive stance clearly indicated that he perceived a great peril. I noticed that Daeghun was present, also; he stood behind Elanvier, watching Milil impassively.

"Stay away from her!" Milil hissed a warning at the young cleric.

Elanvier, on the other hand, could not have looked less threatening. Her hands, palms upturned, were extended in an imploring gesture.

"Please, Lord Milil. It is our way." Her plaintive voice did nothing to disarm him.

"Your way? What care have I for your _way_?" his voice was quiet, but scathing. "Do you think I would merely stand by as you torment her, even as she lies here dying?"

Rather than attempt to defends herself, Elanvier simply asked:

"What do you intend to do, then, my Lord?" her voice never wavered in its respectful tone.

"Since healing her is clearly beyond your abilities, I intend to seek aid elsewhere." he spat the words at her.

"You will fail." Her face was drawn in an expression of confusion and regret.

"Then I shall let her die!" his voice echoed like a rockfall through the stony cavern. "At least that will remove her from your depraved interference!"

Elanvier's shoulders slumped in defeat. Then a familiar voice sounded from the shadows:

"I wonder, sir, how you came to be the decider of this woman's fate?" A hard edge was discernible in the voice, beneath its dream-like quality . The speaker stepped forward, close enough for the light to reveal her features.

Dark eyes of endless depth, a delicate pale face framed by silvery hair, and glowing white feathered wings.

Kaelyn the Dove - formerly of Kelemvor, now of Ilmater. My friend.

Elanvier stood deferentially aside as Kaelyn approached. She wore light armour, and a mace hung at her belt. Spiritual as she was, she was no stranger to combat. Milil straightened up, but did not move away.

"Her fate, it seems, is already decided." he said coldly "Distressing her now serves no purpose."

"I am surprised that you would sooner see her dead than involved in our practices. I did not expect that you would wish to hasten her incarceration in the Wall." Her words momentarily stunned Milil into horrified silence. Her tone, though still commanding, softened when she continued:

"We have no quarrel with the House of Knowledge, and regard its Masters with great respect. But I remind you, my Lord, that this is _not_ your House, and that Ilmater is the ruling authority here."

"You speak for _him_ now." Milil's observation sounded like an accusation.

"I do." she replied. "Of course, no-one here wishes her harm. A great evil has been done to her, and that evil must be avenged. But that will come later. For now, there is still healing and atonement that may be done, even if her physical injuries cannot be repaired."

Elanvier, who had kept her head bowed as Kaelyn spoke, looked up at these words, confusion plain in her eyes.

Kaelyn went on to address the assembled group:

"The ritual will continue, unless objection is voiced by her kin." She turned to look at Daeghun.

He had not spoken, nor perceptibly moved, during the entire exchange. Now he addressed Milil.

"You cannot do anything for her." It was a statement, not a question.

Milil started at him mutely for a moment, then shook his head; I could not see his face, and for that I was grateful. Daeghun turned abruptly away from Milil, as though he had instantly ceased to exists.

No-one besides my father appeared to have noticed that I had woken. His gaze met mine in a moment of clear understanding.

"Ah, I see my foster daughter is awake. Perhaps we can afford her some privacy, and then allow her to decide for herself."

--

The inner courtyard could not have been very large; I knew it was enclosed on all sides by the stone mansion currently housing the Ilmatari in Neverwinter. Yet as I walked with Kaelyn along the twisting paths that wound through the vegetation, I felt a sense of remoteness. Perhaps the illusion was due to the dense vegetation all around us, obscuring the surrounding masonry... yet somehow, I felt that this was intentional, and perhaps enhanced by something less mundane...

Or perhaps it was merely an extension of the remoteness I felt from my own body. Though my heart was beating again, it felt stilted, unnatural. I knew nothing of what awaited me now. I knew only that, whatever it was, Milil was vehemently opposed to it.

And Kaelyn believed that it was unavoidable.

We walked without speaking. We reached a low stone bench, its legs carpeted with moss. A blanket lay folded at one end. We sat down, and Kaelyn twisted to face me. Though she had been perfectly calm from the moment I had seen her appear in the stone cavern, I saw now that her eyes mirrored an inner conflict. This was far more difficult for her than she allowed herself to show.

"I know this is not a path you would have chosen under any other circumstances. What you will be asked to do now, will conflict with your most basic principles. Please believe me that I would not have any part in this, if I thought there was another way."

She took one of my hands in both of hers

"I must ask you to undergo a rite of passage. It is something that all who dwell here have done successfully, or aspire to do in the future. It will not be easy, even for a woman of your abilities... perhaps, even more difficult because of them."

She stopped, searching for the right words. They seemed to elude her.

"You must be inducted as a cleric of Ilmater."

Most people of any education knew what the ritual of Ilmater entailed, if it could even be called a ritual. The aspiring cleric would be drugged, and his mind would be scryed for any falseness or malevolent intent. What was less widely known, was that the supplicant was also sensitized to the suffering of the world during this time; for those who did not pass the test, this knowledge would invariably become too much to bear... For a mage, of course, every instinct immediately revolted at the idea of leaving the mind vulnerable to such exposure.

She watched me closely, visibly bracing herself for my reaction. I hesitated only a moment.

"Very well." I replied.

Her eyes widened with shock, and she sucked in a quick breath. Stunned into silence, her hands went limp around mind. I was perfectly calm as I continued:

"Kaelyn, I do not serve your god, and I never will. But this I know: Ilmater is no fool. He has instructed that I must undergo the ritual, and since it must surely expose my true convictions, he has done so knowing that I will fail."

Even as I spoke, the reason for Milil's bitter reaction became clear to me; he must have known what was to happen, and come to this same conclusion. But unlike Milil, I sensed there was something more.

"Yet you willingly agree to it? To have your mind opened this way?" She whispered.

"I have gathered from what I have heard, though no-one wishes to tell me directly, that my recovery is temporary, and that I am not expected to survive long." I smiled thinly at her, surprised at how little emotion this understanding had evoked in me. I went on:

"I do not believe Ilmater would require such an exercise in futility without another reason. I am curious to know what it is. And since I am to die regardless, if anything can be done to further my cause - _our_ cause - before that happens, I mean to do it." I smiled again, this time with more warmth:

"Besides, my friend, I know you do not obey blindly. You would not be here with me, if you did not believe that there is some purpose to all of this." Kaelyn's shoulders relaxed as some of the tension eased from her body. Her dark eyes shone as she said:

"You are not a woman of faith, but you are right. Your mind, and my heart – they have spoken the same truth."


	18. Grains of Time

The garden was unseasonably warm. Though Greengrass was still weeks away, the evening was languid, lazy and still. Impossibly, the trees around me wore their vivid green leaves like noble finery. Many of the boughs were heavy with blossoms, also; occasionally, one of them would drop to the ground with all the unhurried grace of a débutante's entrance. Drenching the air with their perfume, they adorned the earth like bridal ornaments, bearing with them the promise of a fertile summer.

The stone bench upon which I sat felt warm, and yielding – almost organic; the moss covering its legs also carpeted the ground beneath my feet. A blanket had been draped loosely about my shoulders, protecting me from the chill that would come as evening gave way to night. I reclined on the bench, thinking how oddly deceptive its appearance was: I could never have imagined that it would provide so comfortable a seat. If I closed my eyes, and allowed my head to rest for a moment...

A stirring in the air... not the wind, nor a sound. A change. I opened my eyes. I remained seated on the bench, and could still feel the moss beneath my feet, but all around me was only inky blackness. I stood up, letting the blanket fall to the ground.

"Do not be afraid." The voice of Ilmater sounded from the black void.

"I am not afraid." I replied, as I stepped into the dark.

I was back in the stone cavern. My sunken bath was now empty, and two raised platforms stood on either side of it. Each bore the supine figure of a person; in the shadowy half-light, I could not discern their features.

The silence around me was broken only by my breathing and my erratic heartbeat. I waited.

"Good evening, child." Ilmater's voice was warm. He had appeared at my side, and took my arm in a reassuring gesture.

"Come," he said, "We have much to do." He led me closer to the bath. Looking into it, I saw that a drop of opalescent liquid had gathered at the bottom. As I watched, it began to grow. If I had not been afraid before, I was now.

How would my mind be opened? Having never considered the possibility of such a travesty, I could not predict what effect it would have. What would become of my powers? Would I still be recognisable to myself when it was over? Did it even matter anymore?

Ilmater squeezed my arm. I looked at him, and he smiled at me.

"Be assured, my dear: the integrity of your mind is safe. I do not wish to violate its sanctity." Relief flooded over me. He gave a self-deprecating chuckle, before adding:

"Besides, I do not think I would understand half of it. It is the sincerity of the heart which is of greater interest to me." He fixed me in his benevolent gaze. His last words had filled me with an unease I could not explain.

"But on this day, that is not our purpose, either. Those secrets, also, will remain yours alone – until you are willing not only to share them with others, but to acknowledge them to yourself." His words made no sense to me; I felt the vaguest flicker of irritation. The liquid, which had increased in volume and now formed a small pool, emitted a brief flash of red, as though in response.

Ilmater's good-natured laugh echoed around the cavern.

"Be careful, Crusader; it seems that not all your secrets are safe, after all."

Finding my voice for the first time, I asked the single question that dominated all the others that flitted through my mind:

"Does it end here?"

The smile faded from Ilmater's face. He turned slowly, and eased his painful joints into a sitting position on the edge of the bath. It was some time before he replied:

"There are things that will end, yes, and also things that will begin. Both here, and elsewhere. But I shall give you an answer more directly relevant to your immediate concerns." He leaned over, wincing as he extended his arm towards the liquid, which now shone like mercury. He swirled it irreverently, as though he were drawing a bath. As he did this, he spoke again:

"You have never intended to offer yourself as my cleric, and I, if you'll pardon my candour, have never intended to accept you as such. But this much you knew already." He withdrew his hand from the partially filled bath, allowing the liquid to drip from it in round, silvery globules.

"The Crusade you have undertaken is not yours alone; it will end when the need for it ceases to exist - not with your death, nor that of anyone else."

At last, it had been said aloud. It was almost comforting. I knew what awaited me upon death, for I had seen it before, with my own mortal eyes. A fate that was terrible, yes, but also uncomplicated, undemanding. No more would be expected from me – no more duty, no more fighting, no more struggle. I closed my eyes.

_There is more... there must be._

Wearily, I opened my eyes again. The intrusive thought would not let me rest.

"Why am I here? What need is served by my continued existence?"

Ilmater did not pause this time. His voice remained calm and soothing, but carried a note of severity:

"A premature end to a remarkable life. So much unresolved. I know of the suffering you would have eased, had you been given the time. What has been done, I cannot undo" His words were heavy with regret.

"This small gift I offer you – a few extra grains in the hourglass of time. Only the wink of an eye on the scale of an elven lifetime, but perhaps it will be enough."

His eyes were turned away as he spoke, as though he could not bear to look at my face. I was suddenly aware of the tears running down my cheeks.

Above the two platforms, the air stirred. White mist appeared around the two sleeping figures, and slowly took shape. Ilmater stood up and limped around to the far side of the bath, turning to face me again.

The mist drifted towards me, until the clouds hung side by side in front of me, temporarily obscuring my view of Ilmater and the stone bath.

The ghostly forms of Kaelyn and Milil coalesced from the vapour. Their eyes were closed, and their ethereal bodies hung lifeless in the air. Light flickered for an instant from within them, and their eyes opened.

Immediately, they turned to face each other. Their expressions spoke of mutual emnity, but each remained silent. They moved in concert to stand on either side of me. Ilmater spoke again.

"I offer you something more, Crusader. Something you value above all else - but this is both a blessing and a curse. The burden is too great for one to bear alone; it will be willingly shared by Kaelyn of Ilmater, and Milil, Hand of Oghma."

"I offer you a choice."


	19. Devil of Dreams

_Elanvier_

The cup slid from the elven woman's pale, limp hands, and fell to the moss-covered earth with a dull thud. The last remaining drops of deep red liquid spilled onto the ground, and quickly seeped away. A dark stain remained, glaring up against the contrasting vivid green of the unblemished foliage.

When I was certain she had fully entered the trance, I approached quietly and scooped up the fallen vessel. A breath of wind whispered through the courtyard, chilling the air. Taking care not to disturb her, I lifted a blanket from the seat next to her. Gently, I folded it around her thin shoulders.

Looking at her peaceful face, I was reminded of my own induction, only two moons ago. I smiled as I recalled the warmth and love of Lord Ilmater's presence, and the joy I had felt at his acceptance of me as his priestess.

Even as a child, I had dreamed of being a healer. Native to the Northern land of Vaasa, I had fled with my family when plague and hunger had overrun our homeland. Living as a refugee for most of my young life, I survived the disease that later took the lives of my kin. The Ilmatari had cured me of the virulent plague, and they had sheltered me when I had nowhere left to go.

I had offered myself gladly in service of the Crying God. In return, I found what I had lost before – a home, a family. My passion for healing was guided and shaped by the best teachers, and as my skill improved, so also grew my capacity to sense the needs of others. Upon my induction, I was made more intensely aware of the suffering of the world around me. That which had driven others before me to madness and despair, only strengthened and fueled my resolve.

This was Ilmater's greatest blessing – to perceive the need for healing, and be granted the ability to provide it.

I was about to return indoors, when my attention was drawn by something just off the path. I turned to look, but saw nothing. Yet I felt a bleakness… a cold darkness radiating from among the trees. Cautiously, I approached the spot.

It was only when I was almost close enough to touch him, that I saw the elf. He stood perfectly still, staring with stark eyes at the place where I had left the young woman. He paid me no notice. Had I not felt the unnatural chill, I would never have known he was there.

Daeghun, kinsman of my soon-to-be sister - her foster father. I had done what I could for her when I had been summoned, but it had been _he_ who had saved her life after the attack. Healing her of the effects of the poison was proving to be far more difficult, but I was certain that Ilmater himself would restore her, once she became one of his servants.

His face was perfectly expressionless, but his eyes were too empty. I felt a surge of sympathy; though he had maintained his composure throughout, I was certain that witnessing his daughter's ordeal must have been difficult for him. I needed to understand what he was feeling, in order to offer him what comfort I could. I reached out my hand…

_Icy blackness… adrift upon an endless sea. A nightmare from which there is no waking. A pain that is so deep, it could swallow every thought, every emotion, and never be satisfied._

_The pain of a parent watching a child die._

Faster than I could see, his hand snapped up and grasped my wrist, before my fingertips could brush his shoulder. As his skin touched mine, the dark void of his anguish hit me like a wave. His eyes fixed on mine, and for a moment, they blazed in anger.

I shrank away from him, confusion and fear drowning out my concern. I stumbled as I backed away, and extended my arms behind me to break my fall. I landed heavily, and cried out as sharp pain shot through my forearm.

I scrambled to my feet hastily, trying to ignore the persistent pain. For a fleeting moment, the elf's eyes softened, as though in regret, but he said nothing.

"I… forgive me. I did not mean to intrude." I stammered. Why was he so angry? Surely he knew that we were doing all that could be done for his daughter – I could not understand why he seemed so certain that she would die.

He was no longer looking at me. He had turned away, and I could not see his face. I had to reassure him, somehow; if only he would see that his grief was unnecessary…

"Do not be afraid." I said "Her soul will be saved when she joins our order – and then, we will be able to heal her, I am certain of it."

Daeghun sighed wearily. He continued to stare vacantly ahead. I tried again:

"We do not abandon our own. She is safe here."

This time, the elf spoke. His voice was steady, but an undertone told me that he was controlling it with some effort. The anguish I had sensed in him before had startled me, but his words now wounded me, like blades of ice:

"She will never be one of you. And she is already dead."

--

The lantern beside my bed cast a harsh, cold light as I prepared to say my prayers that night. My knees felt stiff, and I paced restlessly around my small room. At last, I lit some candles beside my small altar, and doused the lantern.

I began my prayers in the usual way, giving thanks for Ilmater's blessing upon the work of his church. I progressed habitually through the mantras required for my spells, hardly aware of the words I was saying.

A dull ache throbbed persistently behind my tired, stinging eyes. I got into bed, fidgeting irritably with the covers. My arm still hurt; my healing spell had only been marginally effective, and I felt too embarrassed to ask for help from one of the other priests.

I closed my eyes, and drifted into a fitfull sleep...

_The Avatar of Milil was standing before me, poised as though he would attack at any moment._

"_Stay away from her!" he snarled._

…

_Kaelyn's face, drawn and troubled as she said:_

"…_her physical injuries cannot be repaired."_

…

_The one I had dreaded most. The words of the elf seemed to echo all around me:_

"…_she is already dead."_

Already dead.

I woke, feeling nauseous. I stood up from my bed, re-lighting the candles with shaking fingers. I sank to my knees.

"Please," I whispered, my hands clasped together, as tears rolled down my cheeks, "help me to understand."

I felt as though the floor had disappeared from beneath me. A disembodied sensation. I opened my eyes.

_I flew over a burning city. The city was as old as time itself, but all around, it was collapsing. Mortals and gods, demons and archons, the living and the dead – all dragged along in the maelstrom of battle. Fire, death, and destruction. The Wall around the city stood partially razed. As I floated nearer, I saw the visage of the elven mage, imprisoned in the wall, her face frozen in a soundless scream. _

_The sky blazed. And chaos rained down upon the earth below._

I reeled forward, my body wracked by retching spasms. Gulping breaths of air, I steadied myself, ignoring the protesting pain from my injured arm. I began to recite a meditative prayer, willing myself back to a state of calm.

The candles flickered. The air grew cold and the skin on my arms and back tingled, the fine hairs standing erect. I realized that I was no longer alone. Almost paralyzed with fear, I turned slowly towards the door.

"Good evening, Elanvier. Please do not be alarmed." The tone was impeccably polite.

A man stood in the shadowy corner of my room. His features looked eerie in the candle light, and his dark hair hung partly over his face. I could not see his eyes.

I did not need to. The sharp, sulphurous odour told me immediately that he was a fiend.

"Begone, devil. I will not speak with you, or hear your lies. You have no power here. Leave this place!" My voice was strong in its conviction, despite my anxiety.

The half-elven face the fiend wore smiled sadly. But he did not vanish, nor recoil at my words.

"I wish you no ill, young priestess - nor could I harm you in any way. You know this. You know also that my presence here is possible, only because you allow it to be so." He waited for me to respond.

I wanted to banish him. More than anything, I wanted his tainted presence gone. I felt revolted that the sacred communion with my god had been intruded upon by a denizen of the lower planes.

But the greatest part of my disgust, I reserved for myself - for I knew that there was only one way for this evil to have entered my home. _I_ had brought him here, somehow.

"It does not matter how you came to be here. Your presence is an affront to me. I command you to leave." I had turned my back on the devil, my fists clenched and my eyes squeezed tightly shut, willing him to vanish.

"I must disagree - I believe it matters a great deal. Your reservations are understandable, of course, given your vocation. As it is, I have not been welcome anywhere for almost as long as I can remember. And my kind have long memories."

Gingerly, I opened my eyes and gave him a sidelong glance. He continued:

"I concede that there are those whose command I cannot refuse - but you, my dear, are not one of them, I'm afraid." He spoke gently, his voice carrying a note that almost sounded like pity.

I put up my bravest front, and prayed that my voice sounded confident:

"If you wish me no harm, and you refuse to leave, you must want something else. What is it?" The demand did not quite carry the ring of authority for which I had hoped.

He smiled slowly, showing his perfect white teeth. I could see his eyes now - they were a luminescent yellow, with diamond-shaped pupils, and seemed to glow against his too-white skin. He replied patiently to my question, without answering it:

"I could explain to you what I want, but at this time, it is irrelevant. I am much more interested in discussing what _you_ want."

I would have told him that he knew nothing of what I wanted, and that I would never accept aid from his kind - but he continued before I could speak.

"I _know_ what you want, Elanvier, perhaps better than you do. You want to understand." He paused a moment, allowing his words to germinate in my mind.

"The woman, the faithless elf mage - she is a friend to your mentor, the half-celestial Kaelyn, and an ally in her quest. Yet your church, whilst preaching healing and salvation, can offer her neither. Why then the empty charade of an induction, when her death is inevitable?"

His words filled me with an emotion that had become foreign to me. I did not respond to his statements, but my pulse quickened and my muscles tensed.

I was angry. How could so sacred a ritual be defiled in this way? The fiend spoke again:

"I am here to help you to make sense of it all, Elanvier. If only you will listen."


	20. The First Dream

_The Knight Captain: The First Dream_

The sky was cold, and clear as glass. The wind bit at my cheeks as I looked around the small clearing, surrounded by a few scraggly, stunted firs. The snow upon their needles had melted and re-frozen into innumerable tiny crystals, scattering the pale sunlight. Between the glittering trees, not fifty paces away, I could see a path winding through the sparse forest.

Milil stood at my side, his eyes scanning the tree line. I turned towards the path, and began to pick my way gingerly over the uneven ground, made perilous by the tree roots that lay concealed beneath a sodden blanket of fallen pine needles. Milil followed, without question or comment.

Almost at the edge of the path, I lost my footing. Instinctively, I thrust out my hand and clutched the branch of a young sapling. Unable to bear my weight, the thin branch was torn loose from the stem, taking a strip of green bark with it. Milil caught my shoulder in a firm, steadying grip. Immediately, thick amber sap began to bleed from the stem, beading at the edges of the damaged bark.

As soon as he was certain I had regained my balance, Milil backed away. Turning my face towards him, I found that he was studiously avoiding my gaze. My grip slackened on the yielding foliage, and it dropped from my hand.

He did not want to look into my condemned eyes.

I felt a dull ache in my chest, something other than the obscene, unnatural shuddering of my heart. A wave of suppressed emotions battered at my carefully erected internal barriers. I sucked in a breath, closing my eyes. For a moment, the fear heaved dangerously against its chains.

_No. I will not let this happen, not now; I _can_ carry this to my grave. I do not have long to wait._

I opened my eyes, my face once again smoothed into a neutral expression. Focusing on my surroundings, something nagged at the edge of my mind. I stopped.

The branch. The ground was soft, but still…

I should have heard it fall, but it had made no sound. I turned to look at the sapling I had so recently disfigured in my clumsiness.

Unscathed, it seemed to be staring back at me, mocking. Beyond it, where our footprints should have depressed the carpet of browning needles, the ground lay untouched. Reaching out to the Weave with my mind, I could sense it all around me, but it would not bend to my will. I almost smiled as understanding filled my mind, like a comforting light.

"This place… it is real to us in every way, but we cannot influence it." I was thinking aloud, not concerned whether Milil listened or not, as I ran my hand pensively over the unblemished bark of the young tree. "This is somewhat like Dreamwalking… yet not. The opposite, I think. I believe that we are seeing the true physical world around us, and _we_ are the dream. Nothing we do here has any lasting effect."

_Why would Ilmater have sent me to this place?_

It was clear that everything I did here was merely an illusion. I wondered how Milil was meant to aid me here, since it was clear that being in my presence was uncomfortable for him.

_Well, I am not exactly enjoying myself either_, I thought irritably.

Straightening my shoulders, I marched on towards the path. "Since we are obviously meant to observe something here, I suppose we may as well discover what it is." The words were flung over my shoulder in Milil's direction. I did not bother to confirm whether he was following me, but when I reached the path, he fell into step beside me.

The path did not have the look of one purposefully lain; rather, it seemed to have been worn into the ground over time by the passage of people and animals. The snow-melt mingled with the exposed ground on either side, forming icy, dirty grey mud.

We had not walked far, when a derelict wooden shack took shape off the path, partially hidden by the trees. Milil abruptly tensed beside me, listening. A sound well beyond the range of my elven hearing had drawn his attention.

He looked sharply at the ramshackle structure in the distance, and we quickened our pace. As we drew nearer, a low, plaintive moan reached my ears. The door of the hut, or what was left of it, was hanging by a single buckled hinge, posing no obstruction to our entry.

Even in the dim half-light, my senses were quickly overwhelmed by the squalor. There was little furniture in the single room, all of it rudely made and fragile-looking. The floor was littered with broken dishes, soiled rags which may have been clothing, and other unrecognizable debris. A sour stench rose from discarded food. My stomach turned uncomfortably.

Another soft moan. A bed stood in one shadowy corner. The young woman lying upon it had been wrapped in a filthy blanket. Only her deathly pale face was exposed, framed by damp, matted strands of dark hair. Her eyes were wide, and unfocused. She lay shivering uncontrollably. She seemed unaware of our presence – I was uncertain whether this was because we were invisible to her, or simply because she was delirious.

Milil reached forward and drew the cover aside, exposing her upper body. Three deep gashes ran from the base of her neck, down the left side of her chest. Dry blood caked the remaining tatters of her clothing, and more continue to ooze from her wounds. Each labored breath she took was shallower than the last. As Milil drew his hand away, the covers snaked around her once more, as though they had not been touched, and hid from us the horror that lay beneath. Milil broke his silence at last:

"She is near death, and beyond any help, even if we had been able to provide it." His voice was like the crumbling of granite, so coarse that his words were almost obscured. I turned away from the woman, my head swimming. I had to be gone from this place. Fleeing from the dying woman and the helplessness she evoked in me, I ran out of the hut.

After the dusky interior, the cold white sunlight was painfully bright. The smell of death and neglect still filled my nose, making me gag uncontrollably. After a few deep breaths, I became aware of Milil's hands encircling my arms. Regaining my composure, I looked into his face. His eyes shone with emotion as he looked at me, but he did not speak again.

A howl of pain rang out from the woods behind the hut, causing a flock of ravens to fly up from the trees, squawking. A deep feeling of dread and foreboding filled me as we hurried around the shack and deeper into the woods.

Another clearing. A man stood with his back to us, tensed in a crouch, brandishing a rusty, makeshift spear. The man was aged and thin, his wispy gray hair fluttering madly around his head as he moved. His wheezing breath came in rapid gasps, sounding almost like sobs.

Less than ten paces from him stood a brown bear, the size of three men. One of its trunk-like hind legs was caught in the jaws of a large steel trap. It snarled at the man, bearing its teeth, and raked at the ground with a massive paw, leaving deep gouges in the earth. The man took a shaking step towards the bear, spear at the ready. The creature reared up with a deafening roar, straining at the trap that bit ever deeper into its flesh.

"My daughter!" the man screamed, his reedy voice cracking as he lunged clumsily at the bear. As he stumbled within range, the bear swiped at him, striking him heavily. His spine snapped audibly, and his broken body was flung to the side, landing in a crumpled, lifeless heap.

The bear growled again, quieter this time, the sound ending in a whine. It sank to the ground with a heavy thud, the dead man's rusty spear impaled in its flank. Dreamlike, and with my initial sense of foreboding now raging in my head, I walked towards the injured animal. Its fur was dark with mud and blood, making its colouring unrecognizable.

As I drew nearer, the creature slowly lifted its head, blinking its eyes. Frozen in horror, I stared into those eyes, clouded by rage and agony. Green eyes…

Anger and frustration rose bitterly in my chest, driving my ailing heart into a broken canter. A coldness swept over me as it shuddered ineffectually, and the ground rushed up towards me.

_Elanee…_


	21. Losing My Way

_Elanvier_

The first rays of the rising sun filtered down between the trees in the inner courtyard, but the coming daylight did nothing to drive away the cloud of darkness that hung about me like a shroud.

Slowly, carefully, I stretched out my frigid limbs, aching from the prolonged tension. I gasped in pain as my injured arm brushed against a low-hanging vine. The skin over my swollen wrist was now an angry purple. I had no healing magic left. I wiped the back of my uninjured hand across my eyes. My skin felt tight from the tears that had dried on my face.

I had tried to banish the devil from my room – tried and failed. I had called upon Ilmater to drive him out. I had cast spells at him, or at least attempted to do so, to no avail. My divine spells had been all but depleted, and my prayers had done nothing to replenish them.

The fiend had not harmed me, nor threatened me. He had not moved at all during our encounter. My continued demands to know what he wanted, went unanswered. The half-elven face he wore had maintained a sympathetic expression, and he had simply repeated his offer to assist me, speaking in an unwaveringly polite, soothing voice.

At last, I gathered the courage to dart past him and out of the room. My fear of the devil was exceeded only by my fear that he would be discovered in my room by someone of my Order, and so I had fled silently. I hoped feverishly that my terrified, racing pulse was thunderous to my ears alone. Bare-footed and wearing only my night-shift, I had run into the darkened courtyard.

The moon was hidden by cloud, casting only a ghostly specter of its usual light. I could see no more than a few feet ahead of me. Ignoring the branches that whipped and scratched at me as I ran, I headed for the eastern corner, where the vegetation was most dense. Crawling into the undergrowth, I hid beneath the fronds of a large conifer, and had huddled there for the rest of the night.

Laying there, cold and frightened in the dark, I remembered a time many years before, when I had fled with my family from our home in the middle of the night. Many of our neighbours had been driven mad by the Plague that had swept over Vaasa – any who did not flee from the diseased, were either killed or infected themselves. I had been a child then, barely old enough to walk, and had clung to my mother with all my strength. Her soft words, her scent and the warmth of her touch had carried my through that long-ago night – and I called upon the memory of her again on this night.

As dawn approached, I knew I would soon be discovered in the courtyard, if I remained here. Afraid as I was, I would have to return to my chamber. _Surely the fiend would have returned to his accursed plane by now. _Scrambling quickly out of the bushes, I made haste back to my room. I could not see the spot where the elven mage had been sleeping when I had last seen her, and I could not risk a detour to investigate. Luck was with me, since I made my return without encountering anyone on my way.

The door to my chamber stood ajar. Trembling, I peeked around the door, confirming that the room was empty. I slipped inside and shut the door. As some of the tension drained from my body, I sank down into a crouch, my back against the door. The memory of last night seemed distant, somehow unreal…

Had I imagined it? A small flicker of hope. Perhaps it had been a nightmare, brought on by the dramatic events of the past few days. As a child, I had been known to walk in my sleep occasionally; sometimes waking in strange places… maybe last night had been no different.

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and walked over to my wash-stand. I would clean myself up, and then report to the senior cleric on duty. Sister Asla was a wise woman, and certain to be understanding and helpful. Feeling calmer know, I hoped that after my prayers and some rest, I would regain my magic and be able to forget the bizarre dream.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a small vial on the floor at the foot of my bed. I recognized it immediately as a healing potion. One of my colleagues must have noticed my injury yesterday, and decided to help an inept junior cleric, without causing her humiliation. Gratefully, I picked up the potion, seeing upon closer inspection that a small piece of parchment was stuck to the bottom.

Frowning, I unfolded the parchment. Before I could read the words, a sharp, sulphurous odour filled my nose, like the spores of a toxic fungus. The note fluttered from my hand, down to the floor.

The fiend had left the potion at my bed.

From where I stood, I could see my reflection staring back at me from the mirror above my wash-stand. I could see my face visibly pale as shock drained the blood from my dirt-streaked cheeks. My wide, dark-circled eyes spoke of the mute panic that was threatening to overwhelm me, for it was not simply the mask of fear that made my visage hardly recognizable to me.

Yesterday, my pale blond hair had been a testament of my Northern heritage, and a reminder of the mother I had lost a child. Now that memory was gone.

A sudden flare of rage gripped me, and I hurled the potion at the mirror with all the force I could muster. The mirror shattered with a piercing crash. The thick, deep red liquid of the potion oozed along the web-like cracks in the mirror, and dripped into a growing pool on the floor.

From the remaining shards of the mirror, the splintered image of a stranger stared back at me. A woman wearing my face, with anger blazing in her eyes - a woman with hair the colour of blood. The touch of the lower planes was subtle, yet unmistakable.

Motionless, I watched as the spilled potion flowed along the crevices in the wooden floor, until it reached the fiend's note, and began to smudge the black ink lettering:

_Please forgive me._


End file.
